UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIKT   OK 

Mrs.  SARAH  P.  WALSWORTH. 


Received  October,  1894. 
Accessions  No.  S^Ttt  6  .      Class  No. 


X 


* 
f  -' 


-  7f  of  g  c'  r-t  c^<-  /  1* 

.       &0VI  /{ 


BITTER-SWEET. 


BITTER-SWEET 


A  POEM. 


BY 


J.    G.    HOLLAND, 

AUTHOR  or  "THK  BAT  PATH,"  "TITCOMB'S  LETT-BBS,"  »ra 


ELEVENTH  EDITION. 

Of 


NEW  YORK: 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER,  124  GRAND  STREET. 

MDCCCLX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1888,  by 
CHARLES  SCEIBNEE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


E.   ORAIGIIEAD, 

rinler,  glereotyper,  nnd  Electro! 

Carton  UuiFtiing, 

81,  S3,  and  85  Centre  Street. 


< 


CONTENTS. 


PAOK 

PICTURE, 9 

PERSONS, 14 

PRELUDE, 18 

FIRST  MOVEMENT— COLLOQUIAL. 

THE  QUESTION  STATED  AND  ARGUED, 25 

FIRST  EPISODE, 

THE  QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  NATURE,       .        .  69 

SECOND  MOVEMENT— NARRATIVE. 

THE  QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  EXPERIENCE,          ...  89 

SECOND  EPISODE, 

THE  QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  STORY,         ....  157 

THIRD  MOVEMENT— DRAMATIC. 

THE  QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  THE  DENOUEMENT,    .     .        .  188 

L'ENVOY,  187 


PICTUKE. 


WINTER'S  wild  birthnight !     In  the  fretful  East 
The  uneasy  wind  moans  with  its  sense  of  cold, 
And  sends  its  sighs  through  gloomy  mountain  gorge, 
Along  the  valley,  up  the  whitening  hill, 
To  tease  the  sighing  spirits  of  the  pines, 
And  waste  in  dismal  woods  their  chilly  life. 
The  sky  is  dark,  and  on  the  huddled  leaves — 
The  restless,  rustling  leaves — sifts  down  its  sleet, 
Till  the  sharp  crystals  pin  them  to  the  earth, 
And  they  grow  still  beneath  the  rising  storm. 
The  roofless  bullock  hugs  the  sheltering  stack, 
With  cringing  head  and  closely  gathered  feet, 
And  waits  with  dumb  endurance  for  the  morn. 
Deep  in  a  gusty  cavern  of  the  barn 


10  BITTER-SWEET. 

The  witless  calf  stands  blatant  at  his  chain ; 
While  the  brute  mother,  pent  within  her  stall, 
With  the  wild  stress  of  instinct  goes  distraught, 
And  frets  her  horns,  and  bellows  through  the  night. 
The  stream  runs  black;   and  the  far  waterfall 
That  sang  so  sweetly .  through  the  summer  eves, 
And  swelled  and  swayed  to  Zephyr's  softest  breath, 
Leaps  with  a  sullen  roar  the  dark  abyss, 
And  howls  its  hoarse  responses  to  the  wind. 
The  mill  is  still.     The  distant  factory, 
That  swarmed  yestreen  with  many-fingered  life, 
And  bridged  the  river  with  a  hundred  bars 
Of  molten  light,  is  dark,  and  lifts  its  bulk 
With  dim,  uncertain  angles,  to  the  sky. 

****** 
Yet  lower  bows  the  storm.    The  leafless  trees 
Lash  their  lithe  limbs,  and,  with  majestic  voice, 
Call  to  each  other  through  the  deepening  gloom; 
And  slender  trunks  that  lean  on  burly  boughs 
Shriek  with  the  sharp  abrasion  ;    and  the  oak, 


BITTER-SWEET.  II 

Mellowed  in  fibre  by  unnumbered  frosts, 
Yields  to  the  shoulder  of  the  Titan  Blast, 
Forsakes  its  poise,  and,  with  a  booming  crash, 
Sweeps  a  fierce  passage  to  the  smothered  rocks, 
And  lies  a  shattered  ruin. 

******* 

Other  scene: — 

Across  the  swale,  half  up  the  pine-capped  hill, 
Stands  the  old  farm-house  with  its  clump  of  barns — 
The  old  red  farm-house — dim  and  dun  to-night, 
Save  where  the  ruddy  firelights  from  the  hearth 
Flap  their  bright  wings  against  the  window  panes, — 
A  billowy  swarm  that  beat  their  slender  bars, 
Or  seek  the  night  to  leave  their  track  of  flame 
Upon  the  sleet,  or  sit,  with  shifting  feet 
And  restless  plumes,  among  the  poplar  boughs — 
The  spectral  poplars,  standing  at  the  gate. 

And  now  a  man,  erect,  and  tall,  and  strong, 

Whose  thin  white  hair,  and  cheeks  of  furrowed  bronze, 


12  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  ancient  dress,  betray  the  patriarch, 
Stands  at  the  window,  listening  to  the  storm; 
And  as  the  fire  leaps  with  a  wilder  flame — 
Moved  by  the  wind — it  wraps  and  glorifies 
His  stalwart  frame,  until  it  flares  and  glows 
Like  the  old  prophets,  in  transfigured  guise, 
That  shape  the  sunset  for  cathedral  aisles. 
And  now  it  passes,  and  a  sweeter  shape 
Stands  in  its  place.     O  blest  maternity ! 
Hushed  on  her  bosom,  in  a  light  embrace, 
Her  baby  sleeps,  wrapped  in  its  long  white  robe ; 
And  as  the  flame,  with  soft,  auroral  sweeps, 
Illuminates  the  pair,  how  like  they  seem, 
O  Virgin  Mother !  to  thyself  and  thine ! 
Now  Samuel  comes  with  curls  of  burning  gold 
To  hearken  to  the  voice  of  God  without : 
"  Speak,  mighty  One !    Thy  little  servant  hears  I" 
And  Miriam,  maiden,  from  her  household  cares 
Comes  to  the  window  in  her  loosened  robe, — 
Comes  with  the  blazing  timbrels  in  her  hand, — 


BITTE  K-SWEET.  13 

And,  as  the  noise  of  winds  and  waters  swells, 
It  shapes  the  song  of  triumph  to  her  lips : 
"The  horse  and  he  who  rode  are  overthrown!" 
And  now  a  man  of  noble  port  and  brow, 
And  aspect  of  benignant  majesty, 
Assumes  the  vacant  niche,  while  either  side 
Press  the  fair  forms  of  children,  and  I  hear : 
"  Suffer  the  little  ones  to  come  to  me  1" 


PEKSONS. 


HERE  dwells  the  good  old  farmer,  Israel, 

In  his  ancestral  home — a  Puritan 

Who  reads  his  Bible  daily,  loves  his  God, 

And  lives  serenely  in  the  faith  of  Christ. 

For  three  score  years  and  ten  his  life  has  run 

Through  varied  scenes  of  happiness  and  woe ; 

But,  constant  through  the  wide  vicissitude, 

He  has  confessed  the  giver  of  his  joys, 

And  kissed  the  hand  that  took  them ;    and  whene'er 

Bereavement  has  oppressed  his  soul  with  grief, 

Or  sharp  misfortune  stung  his  heart  with  pain, 

He  has  bowed  down  in  childlike  faith,  and  said, 


BITTER-SWEET.  15 

"  Thy  will,  O  God— thy  will  be  done,  not  mine  !" 

His  gentle  wife,  a  dozen  summers  since, 

Passed  from  his  faithful  arms  and  went  to  heaven ; 

And  her  best  gift — a  maiden  sweetly  named — 

His  daughter  Ruth — orders  the  ancient  house, 

And  fills  her  mother's  place  beside  the  board, 

And  cheers  his  life  with  songs  and  industry. 

But  who  are  these  who  crowd  the  house  to-night — 

A  happy  throng  ?     Wayfaring  pilgrims,  who, 

Grateful  for  shelter,  charm  the  golden  hours 

With  the  sweet  jargon  of  a  festival  ? 

Who  are  these  fathers?   who  these  mothers?   who 

These  pleasant  children,  rude  with  health  and  joy  ? 

It  is  the  Puritan's  Thanksgiving  Eve; 

And  gathered  home,  from  fresher  homes  around, 

The  old  man's  children  keep  the  holiday — 

In  dear  New  England,  since  the  fathers  slept — 

The  sweetest  holiday  of  all  the  year. 

John  comes  with  Prudence  and  her  little  girls, 


16  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  Peter,  matched  with  Patience,  brings  his  boys — 

Fair  boys  and  girls  with  good  old  Scripture  names — 

Joseph,  Rebekah,  Paul,  and  Samuel ; 

And  Grace,  young  Ruth's  companion  in  the  house, 

Till  wrested  from  her  last  Thanksgiving  Day 

By  the  strong  hand  of  Love,  brings  home  her  babe 

And  the  tall  poet  David,  at  whose  side 

She  went  away.    And  seated  in  the  midst, 

Mary,  a  foster-daughter  of  the  house, 

Of  alien  blood — self-aliened  many  a  year — 

Whose  chastened  face  and  melancholy  eyes 

Bring  all  the  wondering  children  to  her  knee, 

Weeps  with  the  strange  excess  of  happiness, 

And  sighs  with  joy. 

What  recks  the  driving  storm 
Of  such  a  scene  as  this  ?     And  what  reck  these 
Of  such  a  storm  ?     For  every  heavy  gust 
That  smites  the  windows  with  its  cloud  of  sleet, 
And  shakes  the  sashes  Avith  its  ghostly  hands, 


BITTER-SWEET. 

And  rocks  the  mansion  till  the  chimney's  throat 
Through  all  its  sooty  caverns  shrieks  and  howls, 
They  give  full  bursts  of  careless  merriment, 
Or  songs  that  send  it  baffled  on  its  way. 


17 


P  K  E  L  U  I)  E. 


DOUBT  takes  to  wings  on  such  a  night  as  this  ; 
And  while  the  traveller  hugs  his  fluttering  cloak, 
And  staggers  o'er  the  weary  waste  alone, 
Beneath  a  pitiless  heaven,  they  flap  his  face, 
And  wheel  above,  or  hunt  his  fainting  soul, 
As,  with  relentless  greed,  a  vulture  throng, 
With  their  lank  shadows  mock  the  glazing  eyes 
Of  the  last  camel  of  the  caravan. 
And  Faith  takes  forms  and  wings  on  such  a  night. 
Where  love  burns  brightly  at  the  household  hearth, 
And  from  the  altar  of  each  peaceful  heart 
Ascends  the  fragrant  incense  of  its  thanks, 
And  every  pulse  with  sympathetic  throb 
Tells  the  true  rhythm  of  trustfulest  content, 


BITTER-SWEET.  19 

They  flutter  in  and  out,  and  touch  to  smiles 
The  sleeping  lips  of  infancy  ;  and  fan 
The  blush  that  lights  the  modest  maiden's  cheeks; 
And  toss  the  locks  of  children  at  their  play. 

Silence  is  vocal  if  we  listen  well  ; 

And  LI  e  and  Being  sing  in  dullest  ears 

From  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn  again, 

With  fine  articulations  ;   but  when  God 

Disturbs  the  soul  with  terror,  or  inspires 

With  a  great  joy,  the  words  of  Doubt  and  Faith 

Sound  quick  and  sharp  like  drops  on  forest  leaves; 

And  we  look  up  to  where  the  pleasant  sky 

Kisses  the  thunder-caps,  and  drink  the  song. 


The  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is  fled  ; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world  ! 
The  moon  is  gone,  and  the  stars  are  dead; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world  ! 


20  BITTER-SWEET. 

Evil  has  won  in  the  horrid  feud 

Of  ages  with  The  Throne  ; 
Evil  stands  on  the  neck  of  Good, 

And  rules  the  world  alone. 

There  is  no  good ;  there  is  no  God , 
And  Faith  is  a  heartless  cheat 

Who  bares  the  back  for  the  Devil's  rod, 
And  scatters  thorns  for  the  feet. 

What  are  prayers  in  the  lips  of  death, 
Filling  and  chilling  with  hail  ? 

What  are  prayers  but  wasted  breath 
Beaten  back  by  the  gale  ? 

The  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is  fled ; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world  ! 
The  moon  is  gone  and  the  stars  are  dead ; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world  1 


BITTER-SWEET.  21 


&  Sons  of  Jfrttfc. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon; 

God  will  remember  the  world  ! 
Night  will  come  with  a  newer  moon  ; 

God  will  remember  the  world  ! 

Evil  is  only  the  slave  of  Good  ; 

Sorrow  the  servant  of  Joy  ; 
And  the  soul  is  mad  that  refuses  food 

Of  the  meanest  in  God's  employ. 

The  fountain  of  joy  is  fed  by  tears, 
And  love  is  lit  by  the  breath  of  sighs  ; 

The  deepest  griefs  and  the  wildest  fears 
Have  holiest  ministries. 

Strong  grows  the  oak  in  the  sweeping  storm  ; 
Safely  the  flower  sleeps  under  the  snow ; 


22  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  the  farmer's  hearth  is  never  warm 
Till  the  cold  wind  starts  to  "blow. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon  ; 

God  will  remember  the  world  ! 
Night  will  come  with  a  newer  moon  ; 

God  will  remember  the  world  1 


FIEST    MOVEMENT, 


COLLOQUIAL. 


UlTIVBESITY 


FIRST    MOVEMENT. 


LOCALITY—  The  square  room  of  a  New  England  farm-house. 

PRESENT— ISRAEL,  head  of  the  family  ;  JOHN,  PETER,  DAYID,  PATTENCK, 
PRUDENCE,  GRACE,  MARY,  EUTH,  and  CHILDREN. 


THE   QUESTION  STATED  AND  AKGUED. 
ISRAEL. 

RUTH,  touch  the  cradle.     Boys,  you  must  be  still ! 
The  baby  cannot  sleep  in  such  a  noise. 
Nay,  Grace,  stir  not ;  she'll  soothe  him  soon  enough, 
And  tell  him  more  sweet  stuff  in  half  an  hour 

Than  you  can  dream,  in  dreaming  half  a  year. 

2 


26  BITTER- SWEET. 

RUTH. 

[Kneeling  and  rocking  the  cradle, 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt. 
Unwritten  history  ! 
Unfathomed  mystery  ! 

Yet  he  laughs  and  cries,  and  eats  and  drinks, 
And  chuckles  and  crows,  and  nods  and  winks, 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx  ! 
Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  fears, 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years; 
And  he'll  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go  ; — 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he'll  find  it  so ! 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Whc  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 


BITTER-SWEET.  27 

By  which  the  mannikin  feels  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ? — 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea, 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony, — 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls, 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls — 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side, 
And  slipped  from  Heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide  ! 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair  ? 

What  of  the  cradle-roof  that  flies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air  ? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast — 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight — 

Cup  of  his  life  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 


23  BITTER-SWEET. 

Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell, 
Though  she  murmur  the  words 
Of  all  the  birds- 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well  ? 
Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep  ! 
I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 
Over  his  eyes,  in  soft  eclipse, 
Over  his  brow,  and  over  his  lips, 
Out  to  his  little  finger-tips  ! 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes  ! 
Down  he  goes  !    Down  he  goes  ! 

[Rising  and  carefully  retreating  to  her  swit 

See !    He  is  hushed  in  sweet  repose  ! 
DAVID. 

[  Yawning. 

Behold  a  miracle  !     Music  transformed 
To  morphine,  and  the  drowsy  god  invoked 
By  the  poor  prattle  of  a  maiden's  tongue  ! 
A  moment  more,  and  we  should  all  have  gone 


BITTER-SWEET.  29 

Down  into  dreamland  with  the  babe  !     Ah,  well  ! 
There  is  no  end  of  wonders. 

RUTH. 

None,  indeed  ! 

When  lazy  poets  who  have  gorged  themselves, 
And  cannot  keep  awake,  make  the  attempt 
To  shift  the  burden  of  their  drowsiness, 
And  charge  a  girl  with  what  they  owe  to  greed. 

DAVID. 

At  your  old  tricks  again  !     No  sleep  induced 
By  song  of  yours,  or  any  other  bird's, 
Can  linger  long  when  you  begin  to  talk. 
Grace,  box  your  sister's  ears  for  me,  and  save 
The  trouble  of  my  rising. 

RUtti. 

[Advancing  and  kneeling  by  tlie  side  of  Grace 

Sister  mine. 
Now  give  the  proof  of  your  obedience 


30  BITTEK-SWEET. 

To  your  imperious  lord  !     Strike,  if  you  dare  ! 
I'll  wake  your  baby  if  you  lift  your  hand. 
Ha!  king;   ha!  poet;   who  is  master  now — 
Baby  or  husband  ?     Pr'ythee,  tell  me  that. 
Were  I  a  man, — thank  Heaven  I  am  not  ! — 
And  had  a  wife  who  cared  not  for  my  will 
More  than  your  wife  for  yours,  I'd  hang  myself, 
Or  wear  an  apron.     See  !  she  kisses  me  ! 

DAVID. 

And  answers  to  my  will,  though  well  she  knows 
I'll  spare  to  her  so  terrible  a  task, 
And  take  the  awful  burden  on  myself; 
Which  I  will  do,  in  future,  if  she  please  ! 

RUTH. 

Now  have  you  conquered  !     Look  !    I  am  your  slave. 
Denounce  me,  scourge  me,  anything  but  kiss  ; 
For  life  is  sweet,  and  I  alone  am  left 
To  comfort  an  old  man. 


BITTER-SWEET.  31 

ISRAEL. 

Ruth,  that  will  do  ! 
Remember  I'm  a  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
And  bide  no  quarrels  ;   and  if  you  and  David 
Persist  in  strife,  I'll  place  you  under  bonds 
For  good  behavior,  or  condemn  you  both 
To  solitary  durance  for  the  night. 

KUTH. 

Father,  you  fail  to  understand  the  case, 
And  do  me  wrong.     David  has  threatened  me 
With  an  assault  that  proves  intent  to  kill  ; 
And  here's  my  sister  Grace,  his  wedded  wife, 
Who'll  take  her  oath,  that  just  a  year  ago 
He  entered  into  bonds  to  keep  the  peace 
Toward  me  and  womankind. 

DAVID. 

I'm  quite  asleep. 


32  BITTER-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 

We'll  all  agree,  then,  to  pronounce  it  quits. 

RUTH. 

Till  he  awake  again,  of  course.    I  trust 
I  have  sufficient  gallantry  to  grant 
A  nap  between  encounters,  to  a  foe 
With  odds  against  him. 

ISRAEL. 

Peace,  my  daughter,  peace  ! 
You've  had  your  full  revenge,  and  we  have  had 
Enough  of  laughter  since  the  day  began. 
We  must  not  squander  all  these  precious  hours 
In  jest  and  merriment ;  for  when  the  sun 
Shall  rise  to-morrow,  we  shall  separate, 
Not  knowing  we  shall  ever  meet  again. 
Meetings  like  this  are  rare  this  side  of  Heaven, 
And  seem  to  me  the  best  mementoes  left 
Of  Eden's  hours. 


BITTER-SWEET.  33 

GRACE. 

Most  certainly  the  best, 
And  quite  the  rarest,  but,  unluckily, 
The  weakest,  as  we  know  ;   for  sin  and  pain 
And  evils  multiform,  that  swarm  the  earth, 
And  poison  all  our  joys  and  all  our  hearts, 
Remind  us  most  of  Eden's  forfeit  bliss. 

DAVID. 

Forfeit  through  woman. 

GRACE. 

Forfeit  through  her  power  ; — 
A  power  not  lost,  as  most  men  know,  I  think, 
Beyond  the  knowledge  of  their  trustful  wives. 

MARY. 

[Rising,  and  walking  hurriedly  to  the  window 

»Tis  a  wild  night  without. 

2* 


34  BITTEK-SWEET. 

KDTII. 

And  getting  wild 

Within.     Now,  Grace,  I — all  of  us — protest 
Against  a  scene  to-night.    Look  !     You  have  driven 
One  to  the  window  Mushing,  and  your  lord, 
AY  i tli  lowering  brow,  is  making  stern  essay 
To  stare  the  fire-dogs  out  of  countenance. 
These  honest  brothers,  with  their  honest  wives, 
Clrow  glum  and  solemn,  too,  as  if  they  feared 
At  the  next  gust  to  see  the  windows  burst, 
Or  a  riven  poplar  crashing  through  the  roof. 
And  think  of  me  ! — a  simple-hearted  maid 
AY  ho  learned  from  Cowper  only  yesterday 
(Or  a  schoolmaster,  with  a  handsome  fare, 
And  a  strange  passion  for  the  text),  the  fact, 
That   wedded  bliss  alone  survives  the  fall. 
I'm  shocked  ;   I'm  frightened  ;   and  I'll  never  wed 
Unless  I — change  my  mind  I 


13  I  T  rJ  E  11  -  S  W  E  E  T  .  35 

ISRAEL. 

And  I  consent. 

DAVID. 

Aixl  the  schoolmaster  with  the  handsome  face 
Propose. 

nuTii. 

Your  pardon,  father,  for  the  jest ! 
But  I  have  never  patience  with  the  ills 
That  make  intrusion  on  my  happy  hours. 
T  know  the  world  is  full  of  evil  things, 
And  shudder  with  the  consciousness.     I  know 
That  care  has  iron  crowns  for  many  brows; 
That  Calvaries  are  everywhere,  whereon 
Virtue  is  crucified,  and  nails  and  spears 
Draw  guiltless  blood;   that  sorrow  sits  and  drinks 
At  sweetest  hearts,  till  all  their  life  is  dry  ; 
That  gentle  spirits  on  the  rack  of  pain 


36  BITTER-SWEET. 

Grow  faint  or  fierce,  and  pray  and  curse  by  turns  ; 

That  Hell's  temptations,  clad  in  Heavenly  guise 

And  armed  with  might,  lie  evermore  in  wait 

Along  life's  path,  giving  assault  to  all — 

Fatal  to  most ;  that  Death  stalks  through  the  earth, 

Choosing  his  victims,  sparing  none  at  last; 

That  in  each  shadow  of  a  pleasant  tree 

A  grief  sits  sadly  sobbing  to  its  leaves  ; 

And  that  beside  each  fearful  soul  there  walks 

The  dim,  gaunt  phantom  of  uncertainty, 

Bidding  it  look  before,  where  none  may  see, 

And  all  must  go  ;   but  I  forget  it  all — 

I  thrust  it  from  me  always  when  I  may  ; 

Else  I  should  faint  with  fear,  or  drown  myself 

In  pity.     God  forgive  me  !   but  I've  thought 

A  thousand  times  that  if  I  had  His  power, 

Or  He  my  love,  we'd  have  a  different  world 

From  this  we  live  in. 


BI1TER-SWEET.  37 

ISKAEL. 

Those  are  sinful  thoughts, 
My  daughter,  and  too  surely  indicate 
A  wilful  soul,  unreconciled  to  God. 

RUTH. 

So  you  have  told  me  often.     You  have  said 
That  God  is  just,  and  I  have  looked  around 
To  seek  the  proof  in  human  lot,  in  vain. 
The  rain  falls  kindly  on  the  just  man's  fields, 
But  on  the  unjust  man's  more  kindly  still  ; 
And  I  have  never  known  the  winter's  blast, 
Or  the  quick  lightning,  or  the  pestilence, 
Make  nice  discriminations  when  let  slip 
From  God's  right  hand. 

ISKAEL. 

'Tis  a  great  mystery  ; 
Yet  God  is  just,  and, — blessed  be  His  name  ! 


38  BITTER-SWEET. 

Is  loving  too.    I  know  that  I  am  weak, 

And  that  the  pathway  of  His  Providence 

Is  on  the  hills  where  I  may  never  climb. 

Therefore  my  reason  yields  her  hand  to  Faith, 

And  follows  meekly  where  the  angel  leads. 

I  see  the  rich  man  have  his  portion  here, 

And  Lazarus,  in  glorified  repose, 

Sleep  like  a  jewel  on  the  breast  of  Faith 

In  Heaven's  broad  light.     I  see  that  whom  God  loves 

He  chastens  sorely,  but  I  ask  not  why. 

I  only  know  that  God  is  just  and  good  : 

All  else  is  mystery.     Why  evil  lives 

Within  His  universe,  I  may  not  know. 

I  know  it  lives,  and  taints  the  vital  air  ; 

And  that  in  ways  inscrutable  to  me — 

Yet  compromising  not  his  soundless  love 

And  boundless  power — it  lives  against  His  will. 


BITTEK-SWEET.  39 

KUTH. 

I  am  not  satisfied.     If  evil  live 

Against  God's  will,  evil  is  king  of  all, 

And  they  do  well  who  worship  Lucifer. 

I  am  not  satisfied.     My  reason  spurns 

Such  prostitution  to  absurdities. 

I  know  that  you  are  happy  ;   but  I  shrink 

From  your  blind  faith  with  loathing  and  with  fear. 

And  feel  that  I  must  win  it,  if  I  win, 

With  the  surrender,  not  of  will  alone, 

But  of  the  noblest  faculty  that  God 

Has  crowned  me  with. 

ISEAEL. 

O  blind  and  stubborn  child  I 
My  light,  my  joy,  my  burden  and  my  grief  1 
How  would  I  lead  you  to  the  wells  of  peace, 
And  see  you  dip  your  fevered  palms  and  drink  I 
Gladly  to  purchase  this  would  I  lay  down 


40  BITTEE-SWEET. 

The  precious  remnant  of  my  life,  and  sleep, 
Wrapped  in  the  faith  you  spurn,  till  the  archangel 
Sounds  the  last  trump.    But  God's  good  will  be  done ' 
I  leave  you  with  Him. 

EUTH. 

Father,  talk  not  thus  ! 
Oh,  do  not  blame  me  !     I  would  do  it  all, 
If  but  to  bless  you  with  a  single  joy; 
But  I  am  helpless. 

ISRAEL. 

God  will  help  you,  Ruth. 

EUTH. 

To  quench  my  reason  ?     Can  I  ask  the  boon  ? 
My  lips  would  blister  with  the  blasphemy. 
I  cannot  take  your  faith  ;   and  that  is  why 
I  would  forget  that  I  am  in  a  world 


BITTER-SWEET.  41 

Where  evil  lives,  and  why  I  guard  my  joys 
With  such  a  jealous  care. 

DAVID. 

There,  Ruth,  sit  down  ! 
>Tis  the  old  question,  with  the  old  reply. 
You  fly  along  the  path,  with  bleeding  feet, 
Where  many  feet  have  flown  and  bled  before  ; 
And  he  who  seeks  to  guide  you  to  the  goal, 
Has  (let  me  say  it,  father,)  stopped  far  short, 
And  taken  refuge  at  a  wayside  inn, 
Whose  haunted  halls  and  mazy  passages 
Receive  no  light,  save  through  the  riddled  roof, 
Pierced  thick  by  pilgrim  staves,  that  Faith  may  lie 
Upon  its  back,  and  only  gaze  on  Heaven. 
I  would  not  banish  evil  if  I  could  ; 
Nor  would  I  be  so  deep  in  love  with  joy 
As  to  seek  for  it  in  forgetfulness, 
Through  faith  or  fear. 


42  BITTER-SWEET. 

EUTH. 

Teach  me  the  better  way, 
And  every  expiration  from  my  lips 
Shall  be  a  grateful  blessing  on  your  head; 
And  in  the  coming  world  I'll  seek  the  side 
Of  no  more  gracious  angel  than  the  man 
Who  gives  me  brotherhood  by  leading  me 
Home  with  himself  to  heaven. 

ISRAEL. 

My  son, 

Be  careful  of  your  words !     'Tis  no  light  thing 
To  take  the  guidance  of  a  straying  soul. 

DAVID. 

I  mark  the  burden  well,  and  love  it,  too, 
Because  I  love  the  girl  and  love  her  lord, 
And  seek  to  vindicate  His  love  to  her 
And  waken  hers  for  Him.    Be  this  my  plea: 


BITTER-SWEET.  43 

God  is  almighty — all-benevolent; 
And  naught  exists  save  by  His  loving  will. 
Evil,  or  what  we  reckon  such,  exists, 
And  not  against  His  will ;   else  the  Supreme 
Is  subject,  and  we  have  in  place  of  God 
A  phantom  nothing,  with  a  phantom  name. 
Therefore  I  care  not  whether  He  ordain 
That  evil  live,  or  whether  He  permit; 
Therefore  I  ask  not  why,  in  either  case, 
As  if  He  meant  to  curse  me,  but  I  ask 
What  He  would  have  this  evil  do  for  me? 
What  is  its  mission?   what  its  ministry? 
What  golden  fruit  lies  hidden  in  its  husk? 
How  shall  it  nurse  my  virtue,  nerve  my  will, 
Chasten  my  passions,  purify  my  love, 
And  make  me  in  some  goodly  sense  like  Him 
Who  bore  the  cross  of  evil  while  He  lived, 
Who  hung  and  bled  upon  it  when  He  died, 
And  now,  in  glory,  wears  the  victor's  crown? 


44  BITTER-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 

If  evil,  then,  have  privilege  and  part 

In  the  economy  of  holiness, 

Why  came  the  Christ  to  save  us  from  its  power, 

And  "bring  us  restoration  of  the  bliss 

Lost  in  the  lapse  of  Eden  ? 

DAYID. 

And  would  you 

Or  Ruth  have  restoration  of  that  bliss, 
And  welcome  transplantation  to  the  state 
Associate  with  it? 

EUTH. 

Would  I?    Would  I  not! 
Oh,  I  have  dreamed  of  it  a  thousand  times, 
Sleeping  and  waking,  since  the  torch  of  thought 
Flashed  into  flame  at  Revelation's  touch, 
And  filled  my  spirit  with  its  quenchless  fire. 


BITTER-SWEET.  45 

Most  envious  dreams  of  innocence  and  joy 

Have  haunted  me, — dreams  that  were  born  in  sin, 

Yet   swathed    in    stainless    snow.      I've    dreamed,    and 

dreamed, 

Of  wondrous  trees,  crowned  with  perennial  green, 
Whose  soft  still  shadows  gleamed  with  golden  lamps 
Of  pensile  fruitage,  or  were  flushed  with  life 
Radiant  and  tuneful  when  broad  flocks  of  birds 
Swept  in  and  out  like  sheets  of  living  flame. 
I've  dreamed  of  aisles  tufted  with  velvet  grass, 
And  bordered  with  the  strange  intelligence 
Of  myriad  loving  eyes  among  the  flowers, 
That  watched  me  with  a  curious,  calm  delight, 
As  rows  of  wayside  cherubim  may  watch 
A  new  soul,  walking  into  Paradise. 
I've  dreamed  of  sunsets  when  the  sun  supine 
Lay  rocking  on  the  ocean  like  a  god, 
And  threw  his  weary  arms  far  up  the  sky, 
And  with  vermillion-tinted  fingers  toyed 
With  the  long  tresses  of  the  evening  star. 


46  BITTER-SWEET. 

I've  dreamed  of  dreams  more  beautiful  than  all — • 

Dreams  that  were  music,  perfume,  vision,  bliss, — 

Blent  and  sublimed,  till  I  have  stood  enwrapped 

In  the  quick  essence  of  an  atmosphere 

That  made  me  tremble  to  unclose  my  eyes 

Lest  I  should  look  on  God.     And  I  have  dreamed 

Of  sinless  men  and  maids,  mated  in  heaven, 

Ere  yet  their  souls  had  sought  for  beauteous  forms 

To  give  them  human  sense  and  residence, 

Moving  through  all  this  realm  of  choice  delights 

For  ever  and  for  aye ;   with  hands  and  hearts 

Immaculate  as  light ;    without  a  thought 

Of  evil,  and  without  a  name  for  fear. 

Oh,  when  I  wake  from  happy  dreams  like  these, 

To  the  old  consciousness  that  I  must  die, 

To  the  old  presence  of  a  guilty  heart, 

To  the  old  fear  that  haunts  me  night  arid  day, 

Why  should  I  not  deplore  the  graceless  fall 

That  makes  me  what  I  am,  and  shuts  me  out 

From  a  condition  and  society 


BITTER-SWEET.  47 

As  much  above  a  sinful  maiden's  dreams 
As  Eden  blest  surpasses  Eden  curst  ? 

DAVID. 

So  you  would  be  another  Eve,  and  so — 
Fall  with  the  first  temptation,  like  herself! 
God  seeks  for  virtue;   you  for  innocence. 
You'll  find  it  in  the  cradle — nowhere  else — 
Save  in  your  dreams,  among  the  grown  up  babes 
That  dwelt  in  Eden — powerless,  pulpy  souls 
That  showed  a  dimple  for  each  touch  of  sin. 
God  seeks  for  virtue,  and,  that  it  may  live, 
It  must  resist,  and  that  which  it  resists 
Must  live.     Believe  me,  God  has  other  thought 
Than  restoration  of  our  fallen  race 
To  its  primeval  innocence  and  bliss. 
If  Jesus  Christ — as  we  are  taught — was  slain 
From  the  foundation  of  the  world,  it  was 
Because  our  evil  lived  in  essence  then — 
Coeval  with  the  great,  mysterious  fact. 


48  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  He  was  slain  that  we  might  be  transformed,- 

"Not  into  Adam's  sweet  similitude — 

But  the  more  glorious  image  of  Himself, — 

A  resolution  of  our  destiny 

As  high  transcending  Eden's  life  and  lot 

As  he  surpasses  Eden's  fallen  lord. 

RUTH. 

You're  very  bold,  my  brother,  very  bold. 
Did  I  not  know  you  for  an  earnest  man, 
When  sacred  themes  move  you  to  utterance, 
I'd  chide  you  for  those  most  irreverent  words 
Which  make  essential  to  the  Christian  scheme 
That  which  the  scheme  was  made  to  kill,  or  cure. 

DAVID. 

Yet  they  do  save  some  very  awkward  words, 
That  limp  to  make  apology  for  God, 
And,  while  they  justify  Him,  half  confess 
The  adverse  verdict  of  appearances. 


BJTTER-SWEET.  49 

I  am  ashamed  that  in  this  Christian  age 

The  pious  throng  still  hug  the  fallacy 

That  this  dear  world  of  ours  was  not  ordained 

The  theatre  of  evil;   for  no  law 

Declared  of  God  from  all  eternity 

Can  live  a  moment  save  by  lease  of  pain. 

Law  cannot  live,  e'en  in  God's  inmost  thought, 

Save  by  the  side  of  evil.    What  were  law 

But  a  weak  jest  without  its  penalty? 

Never  a  law  was  born  that  did  not  fly 

Forth  from  the  bosom  of  Omnipotence 

Matched,  wing-and-wing,  with  evil  and  with  good, 

Avenger  and  rewarder — both  of  God. 

EUTH. 

I  face  your  thought  and  give  it  audience; 
But  I  cannot  embrace  it  till  it  come 
With  some  of  truth's  credentials  in  its  hands — 
The  fruits  of  gracious  ministries. 

a 


50  BITTER-SWEET. 

DAVID. 

Does  he 

Who,  driven  to  labor  by  the  threat'ning  weeds, 
And  forced  to  give  his  acres  light  and  air 
And  traps  for  dew  and  reservoirs  for  rain, 
Till,  in  the  smoky  light  of  harvest  time, 
The  ragged  husks  reveal  the  golden  corn, 
Ask  truth's  credentials  of  the  weeds?     Does  he 
Who  prunes  the  orchard  boughs,  or  tills  the  field, 
Or  fells  the  forests,  or  pursues  their  prey, 
Until  the  gnarly  muscles  of  his  limbs 
And  the  free  blood  that  thrills  in  all  his  veins 
Betray  the  health  that  toil  alone  secures, 
Ask  truth's  credentials  at  the  hand  of  toil? 
Do  you  ask  truth's  credentials  of  the  storm 
Which,  while  we  entertain  communion  here, 
Makes  better  music  for  our  huddling  hearts 
Than  choirs  of  stars  can  sing  in  fairest  nights? 
Yet  weeds  are  evils — evils  toil  and  storm. 


BITTER-SWEET.  51 

We  may  suspect  the  fair,  smooth  face  of  good; 
But  evil,  that  assails  us  undisguised, 
Bears  evermore  God's  warrant  in  its  hands. 

ISRAEL. 

I  fear  these  silver  sophistries  of  yours. 

If  my  poor  judgment  gives  them  honest  weight, 

Far  less  than  thirty  will  betray  your  Lord. 

You  call  that  evil  which  is  good,  and  good 

That  which  is  evil.     You  apologize 

For  that  which  God  must  hate,  and  justify 

The  life  and  perpetuity  of  that 

Which  sets  itself  against  His  holiness, 

And  sends  its  discords  through  the  universe. 

DAVID. 

I  sorrrow  if  I  shock  you,  for  I  seek 
To  comfort  and  inspire.     I  see  around 
A  silent  company  of  doubtful  souls; 
But  I  may  challenge  any  one  of  them 


52  BITTEK-SWEET. 

To  quote  the  meanest  blessing  of  its  life, 

And  prove  that  evil  did  not  make  the  gift, 

Or  bear  it  from  the  giver  to  its  hands. 

The  great  salvation  wrought  by  Jesus  Christ — 

That  sank  an  Adam  to  reveal  a  God — 

Had  never  come,  but  at  the  call  of  sin. 

ISTo  risen  Lord  could  eat  the  feast  of  love 

Here  on  the  earth,  or  yonder  in  the  sky, 

Had  He  not  lain  within  the  sepulchre. 

'Tis  not  the  lightly  laden  heart  of  man 

That  loves  the  best  the  hand  that  blesses  all ; 

But  that  which,  groaning  with  its  weight  of  sin, 

Meets  with  the  mercy  that  forgiveth  much. 

God  never  fails  in  an  experiment, 

Nor  tries  experiment  upon  a  race 

But  to  educe  its  highest  style  of  life, 

And  sublimate  its  issues.    Thus  to  me 

Evil  is  not  a  mystery,  but  a  means 

Selected  from  the  infinite  resource 

To  make  the  most  of  me. 


BITTER-SWEET.  53 

RUTH. 

Thank  God  for  light ! 

These  truths  are  slowly  dawning  on  my  soul, 
And  take  position  in  the  firmament 
That    spans    my    thought,   like   stars   that   know   then 

place. 

Dear  Lord!    what  visions  crowd  before  my  eyes — 
Visions  drawn  forth  from  memory's  mysteries 
By  the  sweet  shining  of  these  holy  lights  ! 
I  see  a  girl,  once  lightest  in  the  dance, 
And  maddest  with  the  gayety  of  life, 
Grow  pale  and  pulseless,  wasting  day  by  day, 
While  death  lies  idly  dreaming  in  her  breast, 
Blighting  her  breath,  and  poisoning  her  blood. 
I  see  her  frantic  with  a  fearful  thought 
That  haunts  and  horrifies  her  shrinking  soul, 
And  bursts  in  sighs  and  sobs  and  feverish  prayers; 
And  now,  at  last,  the  awful  struggle  ends. 
A  sweet  smile  sits  upon  her  angel  face, 


54  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  peace,  with  downy  bosom,  nestles  close 

"Where  her  worn  heart  throbs  faintly ;   closer  still 

As  the  death  shadows  gather;   closer  still, 

As,  on  white  wings,  the  outward-going  soul 

Flies  to  a  home  it  never  would  have  sought, 

Had  a  great  evil  failed  to  point  the  way. 

I  see  a  youth  whom  God  has  crowned  with  power, 

And  cursed  with  poverty.     With  bravest  heart 

He  struggles  with  his  lot,  through  toilsome  years, — 

Kept  to  his  task  by  daily  want  of  bread, 

And  kept  to  virtue  by  his  daily  task, — 

Till,  gaining  manhood  in  the  manly  strife, — 

The  fire  that  fills  him  smitten  from  a  flint — 

The  strength  that  arms  him  wrested  from  a  fiend — 

He  stands,  at  last,  a  master  of  himself, 

And,  in  that  grace,  a  master  of  his  kind. 

DAVID. 

Familiar  visions  these,  but  ever  full 
Of  inspiration  and  significance. 


BITTER-SWEET.  55 

Now  that  your  eyes  are  opened  and  you  see, 
Your  heart  should  take  swift  cognizance,  and  feel. 
How  do  these  visions  move  you? 

RUTH. 

Like  the  hand 

Of  a  strong  angel  on  my  shoulder  laid, 
Touching  the  secret  of  the  spirit's  wings. 
My  heart  grows  brave.     I'm  ready  now  to  work — 
To  work  with  God,  and  suffer  with  His  Christ; 
Adopt  His  measures,  and  abide  His  means. 
If,  in  the  law  that  spans  the  universe 
(The  law  its  maker  may  not  disobey), 
Virtue  may  only  grow  from  innocence 
Through  a  great  struggle  with  opposing  ill; 
If  I  must  win  my  way  to  perfectness 
In  the  sad  path  of  suffering,  like  Him 
The  over-flowing  river  of  whose  life 
Touches  the  flood-mark  of  humanity 
On  the  white  pillars  of  the  heavenly  throne, 


56  BITTER-SWEET. 

Then  welcome  evil!    Welcome  sickness,  toil, 
Sorrow  and  pain,  the  fear  and  fact  of  death ! 

ISRAEL. 

And  welcome  sin  ? 

KUTH. 
Ah,  David !   welcome  sin  ? 

DAVID. 

The  fact  of  sin — so  much ; — it  must  needs  be 

Offences  come ;   if  woe  to  him  by  whom, 

Then  with  good  reason ;  but  the  fact  of  sin 

Unlocked  the  door  to  highest  destiny, 

That  Christ  might  enter  in  and  lead  the  way. 

God  loves  not  sin,  nor  I;  but  in  the  throng 

Of  evils  that  assail  us,  there  are  none 

That  yield  their  strength  to  Virtue's  struggling  arm 

With  such  munificent  reward  of  power 

As  great  temptations.    We  may  win  by  toil 


BITTER-SWEET.  57 

Endurance ;   saintly  fortitude  by  pain  ; 

.By  sickness,  patience ;   faith  and  trust  by  fear ; 

But  the  great  stimulus  that  spurs  to  life, 

And  crowds  to  generous  development 

Each  chastened  power  and  passion  of  the  soul, 

Is  the  temptation  of   the  soul  to  sin, 

Resisted,  and  re-conquered,  evermore. 

EUTH. 

I  am  content ;  and  now  that  I  have  caught 

Bright  glimpses  of  the  outlines  of  your  scheme, 

As  of  a  landscape,  graded  to  the  sky, 

And  seen  through  trees  while  passing,  I  desire 

No  vision  further  till  I  make  survey 

In  some  good  time  when  I  may  come  alone, 

And  drink  its  beauty  and  its  blessedness. 

I've  been  forgetful  in  ray  earnestness, 

And  wearied  every  one  with  talk.     These  boys 

Are  restive  grown,  or  nodding  in  their  chairs, 

And  older  heads  are  set,  as  if  for  sleep. 

3* 


58  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  beg  their  pardon  for  my  theft  of  time, 
And  will  offend  no  more. 

DAVID. 

Ruth,  is  it  right 

To  leave  a  brother  in  such  plight  as  this — 
Either  to  imitate  your  courtesy, 
Or  by  your  act  to  be  adjudged  a  boor? 

EUTH. 

Heaven  grant  you  never  note  a  sin  of  mine 
Save  of  your  own  construction ! 

ISRAEL. 

Let  it  pass ! 

I  see  the  spell  of  thoughtfulness  is  gone, 
Or  going  swiftly.     I  will  not  complain; 
But  ere  these  lads  are  fastened  to  their  games, 
And  thoughts  arise  discordant  with  our  theme, 
Let  us  with  gratitude  approach  the  throne 


BITTEK-SWEET.  59 

And  worship  God.     I  wish  once  more  to  lead 
Your  hearts  in  prayer,  and  follow  with  my  own 
The  leading  of  your  song  of  thankfulness. 
Then  will  I  lease  and  leave  you  for  the  night 
To  such  divertisement  as  suits  the  time, 
And  meets  your  humor. 

[They  all  arise  and  the  old  man  prays. 

EUTH. 

[After  a  pause. 
David,  let  us  see 

Whether  your  memory  prove  as  true  as  mine. 
Do  you  recall  the  promise  made  by  you 
This  night  one  year  ago, — to  write  a  hymn 
For  this  occasion? 

DAVID. 

I  recall,  and  keep. 

Here  are  the  copies,  written  fairly  out. 
Here, — father,  Mary,  Ruth,  and  .ill  the  rest ; 
There's  one  for  each.     Now  what   shall  be  the  tune? 


60  BITTEK-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 

The  old  One  Hundredth — noblest  tune  of  tunes ' 
Old  tunes  are  precious  to  me  as  old  paths 
In  which  I  wandered  when  a  happy  boy. 
In  truth,  they  are  the  old  paths  of  my  soul, 
Oft  trod,  well  worn,  familiar,  up  to  God. 


[In  which  all  unite  to  iing 

For  Summer's  bloom  and  Autumn's  blight, 
For  bending  wheat  and  blasted  maize, 

For  health  and  sickness,  Lord  of  light, 
And  Lord  of  darkness,  hear  our  praise !. 

We  trace  to  Thee  our  joys  and  woes, — 
To  Thee  of  causes  still  the  cause, — 

We  thank  Thee  that  Thy  hand  bestows; 
We  bless  Thee  that  Thy  love  withdraws. 


BITTER-SWEET.  61 

We  bring  no  sorrows  to  Thy  throne ; 

We  come  to  Thee  with  no  complaint ; 
In  Providence  Thy  will  is  done, 

And  that  is  sacred  to  the  saint. 

Here  on  this  blest  Thanksgiving  Night ; 

We  raise  to  Thee  our  grateful  voice  ; 
For  what  Thou  doest,  Lord,  is  right; 

And  thus  believing,  we  rejoice. 

GEACE. 

A  good  old  tune,  indeed,  and  strongly  sung ; 
But,  in  my  mind,  the  man  who  wrote  the  hymn 
ILid  seemed  more  modest,  had  he  paused  awhile, 
Ere  by  a  trick  he  furnished  other  tongues 
With  words  he  only  has  the  heart  to  sing. 

DAVID. 

Oh,  Grace  I    Dear  Grace  ! 


62  B  I T  T  E  K  -  S  \V  E  E  T  . 

KUTII. 

You  may  well  cry  for  grace, 
If  that's  the  company  you  have  to  keep. 

GRACE. 

I  thought  you  convert  to  his  sophistry. 
It  makes  no  difference  to  him,  you  know, 
Whether  I  plague  or  please. 

EUTII. 

It  does  to  you. 

ISRAEL, 

There,  children  !    No  more  bitter  words  like  those  ! 

I  do  not  understand  them ;    they  awake 

A  sad  uneasiness  within  my  heart. 

I  found  but  Christian  meaning  in  the  hymn ; 

Aye,  I  could  say  amen  to  every  line, 

As  to  the  breathings  of  my  own  poor  prayer. 

But  let  us  talk  no  more.     I'll  to  my  bed. 

Good  night,  my  children  !     Happy  thoughts  be  yours 

Till  sleep  arrive — then  happy  dreams  till  dawn  ! 


BITTEK-SWEET.  63 


Father,  good  night  ! 

[ISRAEL  retires. 

EUTH. 

There,  little  boys  and  girls — 
Off  to  the  kitchen  !     Now  there's  fun  for  you. 
Play  blind-man's-buff  until  you  break  your  heads  ; 
And  then  sit  down  beside  the  roaring  fire, 
And  with  wild  stories  scare  yourselves  to  death. 
We'll  all  be  out  there,  by-and-by.     Meanwhile, 
I'll  try  the  cellar ;    and  if  David,  here, 
Will  promise  good  behavior,  he  shall  be 
My  candle-bearer,  basket-bearer,  and — 
But  no  !    The  pitcher  I  will  bear  myself. 
I'll  never  trust  a  pitcher  to  a  man 
Under  this  house,  and — seventy  years  of  age. 

[Tfie  children  rush  out  of  the  room  with   a  shout,  which   wakes 

the  baby. 

That  noisy  little  youngster  on  the  floor 
Slept  through  theology,  but  wakes  with  mirth — 


64  BITTER-SWEET. 

Precocious  little  creature  !     He  must  go 

Up  to  his  chamber.      Come,  Grace,  take  him  off, — 

Basket  and  all.     Mary  will  lend  a  hand, 

And  keep  you  company  until  he  sleeps. 

[GRACE  and  MARY  remove  the  cradle  to  the  chamber,  and  DAVID 
and  RUTH  retire  to  the  cellar. 


[Rising  and  yawning. 
Isn't  she  the  strangest  girl  you  ever  saw  ? 

PRUDENCE. 

Queer,  rather,  I  should  say.      Grace,  now,  is  strange. 

I  think  she  treats  her  husband  shamefully. 

I  can't  imagine  what  possesses  her, 

Thus  to  toss  taunts  at  him  with  every  word. 

If  in  his  doctrines  there  be  truth  enough, 

He'll  be  a  saint. 

PATIENCE. 

If  he  live  long  enough. 


B  I  T  T  E  R  -  S  W  E  E  T  .  65 

JOHN. 

Well,  now  I  tell  you,  such  wild  men  as  he, — 
Men  who  have  crazy  crotchets  in  their  heads, — 
Can't  make  a  woman  happy.     Don't  you  see  ? 
He  isn't  settled.    He  has  wandered  off 
From  the  old  landmarks,  and  has  lost  himself. 
I  may  judge  wrongly  ;    but  if  truth  were  told 
There'd  be  excuse  for  Grace,  I  warrant  ye. 
Grace  is  a  right  good  girl,  or  was,  before 
She  married  David. 

PATIENCE. 

Everybody  says 

He  makes  provision  for  his  family, 
Like  a  good  husband. 

PETEE. 

We  can  hardly  tell. 
When  men  get  loose  in  their  theology 
The  screws  are  started  up  in  everything. 


66  BITTER-SWEET. 

Of  course,  I  don't  apologize  for  Grace. 
I  think  she  might  have  done  more  prudently 
Than  introduce  her  troubles  here  to  night, 
But,  after  all,  we  do  not  know  the  cause 
That  stirs  her  fretfulness. 

Well,  let  it  go  ! 

What  does  the  evening's  talk  amount  to  ?    Who 
Is  wiser  for  the  wisdom  of  the  hour  ? 
The  good  old  paths  are  good  enough  for  me. 
The  fathers  walked  to  heaven  in  them,  and  we, 
By  following  meekly  where  they  trod,  may  reach 
The  home  they  found.     There  will  be  mysteries  ; 
Let  those  who  like,  bother  their  heads  with  them. 
If  Ruth  and  David  seek  to  fathom  all, 
I  wish  them  patience  in  their  bootless  quest. 
For  one,  I'm  glad  the  misty  talk  is  done, 
And  we,  alone. 

PATIENCE. 

And  I. 


BITTER-SWEET.  67 

JOHN. 
I,  too. 

PRUDEXCE. 

And  L 


FIKST    EPISODE. 

LOCALITY—  The  Cellar  Stairs  and  the  Cellar. 
PRESENT— DAVID  and  RUTH. 


THE  QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  NATURE. 
RUTH. 

LOOK  where  you  step,  or  you'll  stumble  ! 
Care  for  your  coat,  or  you'll  crock  it ! 

Down  with  your  crown,  man  !     Be  humble  I 
Put  your  head  into  your  pocket, 
Else  something  or  other  will  knock  it. 

Don  t  hit  that  jar  of  cucumbers 


TO  BITTER-SWEET. 

Standing  on  the  broad  stair  ! 
They  have  not  waked  from  their  slumbers 
Since  they  stood  there. 

DAYID. 

Yet  they  have  lived  in  a  constant  jar  ! 
What  remarkable  sleepers  they  are  ! 

RUTH. 

Turn  to  the  left — shun  the  wall — 
One  step  more — that  is  all ! 
Now  we  are  safe  on  the  ground, 
I  will  show  you  around. 

Sixteen  barrels  of  cider 
Ripening  all  in  a  row  ! 
Open  the  vent-channels  wider  ! 
See  the  froth,  drifted  like  snow, 


.BITTER-SWEET.  71 

Blown  by  the  tempest  below  ! 

Those  delectable  juices 

Flowed  through  the  sinuous  sluices 

Of  sweet  springs  under  the  orchard  ; 

Climbed  into  fountains  that  chained  them  ; 

Dripped  into  cups  that  retained  them, 

And  swelled  till  they  dropped,  and  we  gained  them. 

Then  they  were  gathered  and  tortured 

By  passage  from  hopper  to  vat, 

And  fell — every  apple  crushed  flat. 

Ah  !  how  the  bees  gathered  round  them, 

And  how  delicious  they  found  them  ! 

Oat-straw,  as  fragrant  as  clover, 

Was  platted,  and  smoothly  turned  over, 

Weaving  a  neatly-ribbed  basket  ; 

And,  as  they  built  up  the  casket, 

In  went  the  pulp  by  the  scoop-full, 

Till  the  juice  flowed  by  the  stoup-full,— 

Filling  the  half  of  a  puncheon 

\VhiIe  the  men  swallowed  their  luncheon. 


72  BITTER-SWEET. 

Pure  grew  the  stream  with  the  stress 

Of  the  lever  and  screw, 
Till  the  last  drops  from  the  press 

Were  as  bright  as  the  dew. 
There  were  these  juices  spilled  ; 
There  were  these  barrels  filled  ; 
Sixteen  barrels  of  cider — 
Ripening  all  in  a  row  ! 
Open  the  vent-channels  wider  ! 
See  the  froth,  drifted  like  snow, 
Blown  by  the  tempest  below  ! 

DAVID. 

Hearts,  like  apples,  are  hard  and  sour, 
Till  crushed  by  Pain's  resistless  power 
And  yield  their  juices  rich  and  bland 
To  none  but  Sorrow's  heavy  hand. 
The  purest  streams  of  human  love 
Flow  naturally  never, 


BITTER-SWEET 

But  gush  by  pressure  from  above, 
With  God's  hand  on  the  lever. 
The  first  are  turbidest  and  meanest ; 
The  last  are  sweetest  and  serenest. 

EUTH. 

Sermon  quite  short  for  the  text ! 
What  shall  we  hit  upon  next  ? 
Lift  up  the  lid  of  that  cask  ; 

See  if  the  brine  be  abundant ; 
Easy  for  me  were  the  task 

To  make  it  redundant 
With  tears  for  my  beautiful  Zephyr— 

Pet  of  the  pasture  and  stall — 
Whitest  and  comeliest  heifer, 

Gentlest  of  all ! 

Oh,  it  seemed  cruel  to  slay  her ! 

But  they  insulted  my  prayer 

For  her  careless  and  innocent  life, 
4 


»  4:  B  I  T  T  E  E  -  S  W  E  E  T  . 

And  the  creature  was  brought  to  the  knife 

With  gratitude  in  her  eye  ; 
For  they  patted  her  back,  and  chafed  her  head, 
And  coaxed  her  with  softest  words,  as  they  led 

Her  up  to  the  ring  to  die. 
Do  you  blame  me  for  crying 
When  my  Zephyr  was  dying  ? 
I  shut  my  room  and  my  ears, 
And  opened  my  heart  and  my  tears, 
And  wept  for  the  half  of  a  day  ; 

And  I  could  not  go 

To  the  rooms  below 
Til1-  the  butcher  went  away. 

DAVID. 

Life  evermore  is  fed  by  death, 

In  earth  and  sea  and  sky; 
And,  that  a  rose  may  breathe  its  breath, 
Something  must  die. 


BITTER-SWEET.  75 


Earth  is  a  sepulchre  of  flowers, 

Whose  vitalizing  mould 
Through  boundless  transmutation  towers, 
In  green  and  gold. 

The  oak  tree,  struggling  with  the  blast, 

Devours  its  father  tree, 
And  sheds  its  leaves  and  drops  its  mast, 
That  more  may  be. 

The  falcon  preys  upon  the  finch, 

The  finch  upon  the  fly 
And  nought  will  loose  the  hunger-pinch 
But  death's  wild  cry. 

The  milk-haired  heifer's  life  must  pass 

That  it  may  fill  your  own, 
As  passed  the  sweet  life  of  the  grass 
She  fed  upon. 


76  BITTEK-SWEET. 

The  power  enslaved  by  yonder  cask 

Shall  many  burdens  bear; 
Shall  nerve  the  toiler  at  his  task, 
The  soul  at  prayer. 

From  lowly  woe  springs  lordly  joy; 

From  humbler  good  diviner; 
The  greater  life  must  aye  destroy 
And  drink  the  minor. 

From  hand  to  hand  life's  cup  is  passed 

Up  Being's  piled  gradation, 
Till  men  to  angels  yield  at  last 
The  rich  collation. 

KUTH. 

Well,  we  are  done  with  the  brute; 
Now  let  us  look  at  the  fruit, — 
Every  barrel,  I'm  told, 
From  grafts  half  a  dozen  years  old. 


BITTER-SWEET.  77 

That  is  a  barrel  of  russets; 
But  we  can  hardly  discuss  its 

Spheres  of  frost  and  flint, 
Till,  smitten  by  thoughts  of  Spring, 
And  the  old  tree  blossoming, 
Their  bronze  takes  a  yellower  tint, 
And  the  pulp  grows  mellower  in't. 
But  oh!  when  they're  sick  with  the  savors 

Of  sweets  that  they  dream  of, 
Sure,  all  the  toothsomest  flavors 

They  hold  the  cream  of! 
You  will  be  begging  in  May, 
In  your  irresistible  way, 
For  a  peck  of  the  apples  in  gray. 

Those  are  the  pearmains,  I  think, — 
Bland  and  insipid  as  eggs; 
They  were  too  lazy  to  drink 

The  light  to  its  dregs, 
And  left  them  upon  the  rind — 


78  BITTER-SWEET. 

A  delicate  film  of  blue — 
Leave  them  alone; — I  can  find 
Better  apples  for  you. 

Those  are  the  Rhode  Island  greenings; 
Excellent  apples  for  pies; 
There  are  no  mystical  meanings 
In  fruit  of  that  color  and  size. 
They  are  too  coarse  and  too  juiceful; 
They  are  too  large  and  too  useful. 

There  are  the  Baldwins  and  Flyers, 
Wrapped  in  their  beautiful  fires! 
Color  forks  up  from  their  stems 

As  if  painted  by  Flora, 
Or  as  out  from  the  pole  stream  the  flames 

Of  the  Northern  Aurora. 

Here  shall  our  quest  have  a  close; 
Fill  up  your  basket  with  those; 


BITTER-SWEET.  79 


Bite  through  their  vesture  of  flame, 

And  then  you  will  gather 
All  that  is  meant  by  the  name, 

"  Seek-no-farther !» 

DAVID. 

The  native  orchard's  fairest  trees, 

Wild  springing  on  the  hill, 
Bear  no  such  precious  fruits  as  these, 
And  never  will; 

Till  axe  and  saw  and  pruning  knife 

Cut  from  them  every  bough, 
And  they  receive  a  gentler  life 

Than  crowns  them  now. 

And  Nature's  children,  evermore, 

Though  grown  to  stately  stature, 
Must  bear  the  fruit  their  fathers  bore — • 
The  fruit  of  nature  ; 


80  BITTER-SWEET. 

Till  every  thrifty  vice  is  made 

The  shoulder  for  a  cion, 
Cut  from  the  bending  trees  that  shade 
The  hills  of  Zion. 

Sorrow  must  crop  each  passion-shoot, 

And  pain  each  lust  infernal, 
Or  human  life,  can  bear  no  fruit 
To  life  eternal. 

For  angels  wait  on  Providence; 

And  mark  the  sundered  places, 
To  graft  with  gentlest  instruments 
The  heavenly  graces. 

RUTH. 

Well,  you're  a  curious  creature! 
You  should  have  been  a  preacher. 
But  look  at  that  bin  of  potatoes — 


BITTEK-SWEET.  81 


Grown  in  all  singular   shapes — 
Red  and  in  clusters,  like  grapes, 

Or  more  like  tomatoes. 
Those  are  Merinoes,  I  guess; 

Very  prolific  and  cheap ; 
They  make  an  excellent  mess 

For  a  cow,  or  a  sheep, 
And  are  good  for  the  table,  they  say, 
When  the  winter  has  passed  away. 

Those  are  my  beautiful  Carters; 
Every  one  doomed  to  be  martyrs 

To  the  eccentric  desire 
Of  Christian  people  to  skin  them,— 

Brought  to  the  trial  of  fire 
For  the  good  that  is  in  them! 
Ivory  tubers — divide  one  ! 

Ivory  all  the  way  through! 
Never  a  hollow  inside  one; 

Never  a  core,  black  or  blue  ! 
4* 


82  B  I  T  T  E  11  -  S  W  E  E  T  . 

Ah,  you  should  taste  them  when  roasted  1 
(Chestnuts  are  not  half  so  good ;) 

And  you  would  find  that  I've  boasted 
Less  than  I  should. 

They  make  the  meal  for  Sunday  noon; 
And,  if  ever  you  eat  one,  let  me  beg 
You  to  manage  it  just  as  you  do  an  egg. 

Take  a  pat  of  butter,  a  silver  spoon, 

And  wrap  your  napkin  round  the  shell : 

Have  you  seen  a  humming-bird  probe  the  bell 

Of  a  white-lipped  morning-glory? 

Well,  that's  the  rest  of  the  story  ! 

But  it's  very  singular,  surely, 

They  should  produce  so  poorly. 

Father  knows  that  I  want  them, 

So  he  continues  to  plant  them ; 

But,  if  I  try  to  argue  the  question, 
He  scoffs,  as  a  thrifty  farmer  will ; 

And  puts  me  down  with  the  stale  suggestion — 
"Small  potatoes,  and  few  in  a  hill." 


L  1  T  T  E  11  -  J5  \Y  E  E  T  .  83 

DAVID. 

Thus  is  it  over  all  the  earth! 

That  which  we  call  the  fairest, 
And  prize  for  its  surpassing  worth, 
Is  always  rarest. 

Iron  is  heaped  in  mountain  piles, 
And  gluts  the  laggard  forges ; 
But  gold-flakes  gleam  in  dim  defiles 
And  lonely  gorges. 

N 

The  snowy  marble  flecks  the  land 

With  heaped  and  rounded  ledges, 
But  diamonds  hide  within  the  sand 
Their  starry  edges. 

The  finny  armies  clog  the  twine 

That  sweeps  the  lazy  river, 
But  pearls  come  singly  from  the  brino, 
With  the  p:ilo  diver. 


84  BITTEK-SWEET. 

God  gives  no  value  unto  men 

Unmatched  by  meed  of  labor ; 
And  Cost  of  Worth  has  ever  been 
The  closest  neighbor. 

Wide  is  the  gate  and  broad  the  way 

That  open  to  perdition, 
And  countless  multitudes  are  they 
Who  seek  admission. 

But  strait  the  gate,  the  path  unkind, 

That  lead  to  life  immortal, 
And  few  the  careful  feet  that  find 
The  hidden  portal. 

All  common  good  has  common  price ; 

Exceeding  good,  exceeding; 
Christ  bought  the  keys  of  Paradise 
By  cruel  bleeding; 

And  every  soul  that  wins  a  place 
Upon  its  hills  of  pleasure, 


BIT  TEE-SWEET.  85 

Must  give  its  all,  and  beg  for  grace 
To  fill  the  measure. 

Were  every  hill  a  precious  mine, 
And  golden  all  the  mountains ; 
Were  all  the  rivers  fed  with  wine 
By  tireless  fountains ; 

Life  would  be  ravished  of  its  zest, 

And  shorn  of  its  ambition, 
And  sink  into  the  dreamless  rest 
Of  inanition. 

Up  the  broad  stairs  that  Value  reara 
Stand  motives  beck'ning  earthward, 
To  summon  men  to  nobler  spheres, 

And  lead  them  worthward. 

BUTH. 

I'm  afraid  to  show  you  anything  more; 
For  parsnips  and  art  are  so  very  long, 


86  BITTEK-SWEET. 

That  the  passage  back  to  the  cellar-door 

Would  be  through  a  mile  of  song. 
But  Truth  owns  me  for  an  honest  teller; 

And,  if  the  honest  truth  be  told, 
I  am  indebted  to  you  and  the  cellar 

For  a  lesson  and  a  cold. 
And  one  or  the  other  cheats  my  sight; 

(O  silly  girl !   for  shame  !) 
Barrels  are  hooped  with  rings  of  light, 

And  stopped  with  tongues  of  flame. 
Apples  have  conquered  original  sin, 

Manna  is  pickled  in  brine, 
Philosophy  fills  the  potato  bin, 

And  cider  wiU  soon  be  wine. 
So  crown  the  basket  with  mellow  fruit, 

And  brim  the  pitcher  with  pearls; 
And  we'll  see  how  the  old-time  dainties  suit 

The  old-time  boys  and  girls. 

[They  ascend  the  stairs. 


SECOND    MOVEMENT. 


NARRATIVE. 


SECOND   MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY— 4  Chamber. 
PBESENT— GBAOB,  MARY,  and  th&  BABT. 

THE   QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  EXPERIENCE. 

GRACE. 

[Sings. 
Hither,  Sleep  !   A  mother  wants  thee  I 

Come  with  velvet  arms! 
Fold  the  baby  that  she  grants  thee 
To  thy  own  soft  charms! 

Bear  him  into  Dreamland  lightly! 
Give  hmi  sight  of  flowers ! 


90  BITTEK -SWEET. 

Do  not  bring  him  back  till  brightly 
Break  the  morning  hours! 

Close  his  eyes  with  gentle  fingers! 

Cross  his  hands  of  snow! 
Tell  the  angels  where  he  lingers 

They  must  whisper  low! 

I  will  guard  thy  spell  unbroken  ' 

If  thou  hear  my  call ; 
Come  then,  Sleep!   I  wait  the  token 

Of  thy  downy  thrall. 

Now  I  see  his  sweet  lips  moving; 

He  is  in  thy  keep; 
Other  milk  the  babe  is  proving 

At  the  breast  of  sleep ! 

MAET. 

Sleep,  babe,  the  honeyed  sleep  of  innocence ! 
Sleep  like  a  bud ;  for  soon  the  sun  of  life 


BITTER-SWEET.  91 

With  ardors  quick  and  passionate  shall  rise, 

And,  with  hot  kisses,  part  the  fragrant  lips — 

The  folded  petals  of  thy  soul !   Alas ! 

What  feverish  winds  shall  tease  and  toss  thee,  then! 

What  pride  and  pain,  ambition  and  despair, 

Desire,  satiety,  and  all  that  fill 

With  misery  life's  fretful  enterprise, 

Shall  wrench  and  blanch  thee,  till  thou  fall  at  last, 

Joy  after  joy  down  fluttering  to  the  earth, 

To  be  apportioned  to  the  elements! 

I  marvel,  baby,  whether  it  were  ill 

That  he  who  planted  thee  should  pluck  thee  now, 

And  save  thee  from  the  blight  that  comes  on  all. 

I  marvel  whether  it  would  not  be  well 

That  the  frail  bud  should  burst  in  Paradise, 

On  the  full  throbbing  of  an  angel's  heart ! 

GRACE. 

Oh,  speak  not  thus!     The  thought  is  terrible. 
He  is  my  all ;   and  yet,  it  sickens  me 


92  BITTER-SWEET. 

To  think  that  he  will  grow  to  be  a  man. 
If  he  were  not  a  boy ! 

MARY. 

Were  not  a  boy? 

That  wakens  other  thoughts.    Thank  God  for  that! 
To  be  a  man,  if  aught,  is  privilege 
Precious  and  peerless.    While  I  bide  content 
The  modest  lot  of  woman,  all  my  soul 
Gives  truest  manhood  humblest  reverence. 
It  is  a  great  and  god-like  thing  to  do  ! 
'Tis  a  great  thing,  I  think,  to  be  a  man. 
Man  fells  the  forests,  ploughs  and  tills  the  fields, 
And  heaps  the  granaries  that  feed  the  world. 
At  his  behest  swift  Commerce  spreads  her  wings, 
And  tires  the  sinewy  sea-birds  as  she  flies, 
Fanning  the  solitudes  from  clime  to  clime. 
Smoke-crested  cities  rise  beneath  his  hand, 
And  roar  through  ages  with  the  din  of  trade. 
Steam  is  the  fleet-winged  herald  of  his  will, 


BITTER-SWEET.  93 

Joining  the  angel  of  the  Apocalypse 

Mid  sound  and  smoke  and  wond'rous  circumstance, 

And  with  one  foot  upon  the  conquered  sea 

And  one  upon  tho  subject  land,  proclaims 

That  space  shall  be  no  more.    The  lightnings  veil 

Their  fiery  forms  to  wait  upon  his  thought, 

And  give  it  wing,  as  unseen  spirits  pause 

To  bear  to  God  the  burden  of  his  prayer. 

God  crowns  him  with  the  gift  of  eloquence, 

And  puts  a  harp  into  his  tuneful  hands, 

And  makes  him  both  his  prophet  and  his  priest. 

'Twas  in  his  form  the  great  Immanuel 

Revealed  himself;  the  Apostolic  Twelve, 

Like  those  who  since  have  ministered  the  Word, 

Were  men.     JTis  a  great  thing  to  be  a  man. 

GRACE. 

And  fortunate  to  have  an  advocate 
Across  whose  memory  convenient  clouds 
Come  floating  at  convenient  intervals. 


94  BITTE  II  -SWEET. 

The  harvest  fields  that  man  has  honored  most 

Are  those  where  human  life  is  reaped  like  grain. 

There  never  rose  a  mart,  nor  shone  a  sail, 

Nor  sprang  a  great  invention  into  birth, 

By  other  motive  than  man's  love  of  gold. 

It  is   for  wrong  that  he  is  eloquent ; 

For  lust  that  he  indites  his  sweetest  songs. 

Christ  was  betrayed  by  treason  of  a  man, 

And  scourged  and  hung  upon  a  tree  by  men  ; 

And  the  sad  women  who  were  at  his  cross, 

And  sought  him  early  at  the  sepulchre, 

And  since  that  day,  in  gentle  multitudes 

Have    loved    and    followed     him,     have    been    man's 

slaves, — 
The  victims  of  his  power  and  his  desire. 

MARY. 

And  you,  a  wedded  wife — well  wedded,  too, 
Can  say  all  this,  and  say  it  bitterly  I 


B  I  T  T  E  II  -  S  W  E  E  T  .  95 

GRACE. 

Perhaps  because  a  wife ;   perhaps  because — 

MARY. 

Hush,  Grace !     No  more !     I  beg  you,  say  no  more. 

Nay  !     I  will  leave  you  at  another  word  ; 

For  I  could  listen  to  a  blasphemy, 

Falling  from  bestial  lips,  with  lighter  chill 

Than  to  the  mad  complainings  of  a  soul 

Which  God  has  favored  as  he  favors  few. 

I  dare  not  listen  when  a  woman's  voice, 

Which  blessings  strive  to  smother,  flings  them  off 

In  mad  contempt.     I  dare  not  hear  the  words 

Whose  utterance  all  the  gentle  loves  dissuade 

By  kisses  which  are  reasons,  while  a  throng 

Of  friendships,  comforts,  and  sweet  charities — 

The  almoners  -of  the  All-Bountiful — 

With  folded  wings  stand  sadly  looking  on. 

Believe  me,  Grace,  the  pioneer  of  judgment — 


96  BITTEK-SWEET. 

Ordained,  commissioned — is  Ingratitude  ; 

For  where  it  moves,  good  withers ;  blessings  die  ; 

Till  a  clean  path  is  left  for  Providence, 

Who  never  sows  a  good  the  second  time 

Till  the  torn  bosom  of  the  graceless  soil 

Is  ready  for  the  seed. 

GEAOE. 

Oh,  could  you  know 

The  anguish  of  my  heart,  you  would  not  chide  I 
If  I  repine,  it  is  because  my  lot 
Is  not  the  blessed  thing  it  seems  to  you. 
O  Mary !     Could  you  know  !     Could  you  but  know  1 

MARY. 

Then  why  not  tell  me  all?    You  know  me,  love, 
And  know  that  secrets  make  their  graves  with  me. 
So,  tell  me  all  ;   for  I  do  promise  you 
Such  sympathy  as  God  through  suffering 


BITTER-SWEET.  97 

Has  given  me  power  to  grant  to  such  as  you. 
I  bought  it  dearly,  and  its  largess  waits 
The  opening  of  your  heart. 

GEACE. 

I  am  ashamed, — 

In  truth,  I  am  ashamed — to  tell  you  all. 
You  will  not  laugh  at  me  ? 

MAKY. 

I  laugh  at  you? 

GRACE. 

Forgive  me,  Mary,  for  my  heart  is  weak  ; 
Distrustful  of  itself  and  all  the  world. 
Ah,  well !     To  what  strange  issues  leads  our  life ! 
It  seems  but  yesterday  that  you  were  brought 
To  this  old  house,  an  orphaned  little  girl, 
Whose    large    shy    eyes,    pale    cheeks,    and    shrinking 
ways 


98  BITTER-SWEET. 

Filled  all  our  hearts  with  wonder,  as  \ve  stood 

And  stared  at  you,  until  your  heart  o'erfilled 

With  the  oppressive  strangeness,  and  you  wept. 

Yes,  I  remember  how  I  pitied  you — 

I  who  had  never  wept,  nor  even  sighed, 

Save  on  the  bosom  of  my  gentle  mother  ; 

For  my  quick  heart  caught  all  your  history 

When  with  a  hurried  step  you  sought  the  sun, 

And  pressed  your  eyes  against  the  window-pane 

That  God's  sweet  light  might  dry  them.     Well  I  knew. 

Though  all  untaught,  that  you  were  motherless. 

And  I  remember  how  I  followed  you, — 

Embraced  and  kissed  you — kissed  your  tears  away — 

Tears  that  came  faster,  till  they  bathed  the  lips 

That  would  have  sealed  their  flooded  fountain-heads ; 

And  then  we  wound  our  arms  around  each  other, 

And  passed  out — out  under  the  pleasant  sky, 

And  stood  among  the  lilies  at  the  door. 

I  gave  no  formal  cornfort ;   you,  no  thanks ; 


BITTER-SWEET.  99 

For  tears  had  been  your  language,  kisses  mine, 
And  we  were  friends.     We  talked  about  our  dolls, 
And  all  the  pretty  playthings  we  possessed. 
Then  we  revealed,  with  childish  vanity, 
Our  little  stores  of  knowledge.     I  was  full 
Of  a  sweet  marvel  when  you  pointed  out 
The  yellow  thighs  of  bees  that,  half  asleep, 
Plundered  the  secrets  of  the  lily-bells, 
And  called  the  golden  pigment  honey-comb. 
And  your  black  eyes  were  opened  very  wide 
When  I  related  how,  one  sunny  day, 
1  found  a  well,  half-covered,  down  the  lane, 
That  was  so  deep  and  clear  that  I  could  see 
Straight  through  the  world,  into  another  sky  1 

MARY. 

Do  you  remember  how  the  Guinea  hens 

Set  up  a  scream  upon  the  garden  wall, 

That  frightened  me  to  running,  when  you  screamed 

With  laughter  quite  as  loud  ? 


LOO  BITTEK-SWEET. 

GKACE. 

Aye,  very  well ; 

But  better  still  the  scene  that  followed  all. 
Oh,  that  has  lingered  in  my  memory 
Like  that  divinest  dream  of  Raphael — 
The  Dresden  virgin  prisoned  in  a  print — 
That  watched  with  me  in  sickness  through  long  weeks, 
And  from  its  frame  upon  the  chamber-wall 
Breathed  constant  benedictions,  till  I  learned 
To  love  the  presence  like  a  Roman  saint. 

My  mother  called  us  in ;    and  at  her  knee, 

Embracing  still,  we  stood,  and  felt  her  smile 

Shine  on  our  up-turned  faces  like  the  light 

Of  the  soft  summer  moon.     And  then  she  stooped ; 

And  when  she  kissed  us,  I  could  see  the  tears 

Brimming  her  eyes.     O  sweet  experiment  ! 

To  try  if  love  of  Jesus  and  of  me 

Could  make  our  kisses  equal  to  her  lips  ! 

Then  straight  my  prescient  heart  set  up  a  song, 


BITTEE-SWEET.  101 

And  fluttered  in  my  bosom  like  a  bird. 

I  knew  a  blessing  was  about  to  fall, 

As  robins  know  the  coining  of  the  rain, 

And  bruit  the  joyous  secret,  ere  its  steps 

Are  heard  upon  the  mountain  tops.     I  knew 

You  were  to  be  my  sister;  and  my  heart 

Was  almost  bursting  with  its  love  and  pride. 

I  could  not  wait  to  hear  the  kindly  words 

Our  mother  spoke — her  counsels  and  commands — 

For  you  were  mine — my  sister  !     So  I  tore 

Your  clinging  hand  from  hers  with  rude  constraint, 

And  took  you  to  my  chamber,  where  I  played 

With  you,  in  selfish  sense  of  property, 

The  whole  bright  afternoon. 

And  here  again, 

Within  this  same  old  chamber  we  are  met. 
A\re  told  our  secrets  to  each  other  then  ; 
Thus  let  us  tell  them  now ;    and  you  shall  be 
To  my  grief-burdened  soul  what  you  have  said, 
So  many  times    that  I  have  been  to  yours. 


102  BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

Alas  !    I  never  meant  to  tell  my  tale 
To  other  ear  than  God's;    but  you  have  claims 
Upon  my  confidence, — claims  just  rehearsed, 
And  other  claims  which  you  have  never  known. 

GRACE. 

And  other  claims  which  I  have  never  known  I 

You  speak  in  riddles,  love.     I  only  know 

You  grew  to  womanhood,  were  beautiful, 

Were  loved  and  wooed,  were  married  and  were  I  lest  ;- 

That  after  passage  of  mysterious  years 

We  heard  sad  stories  of  your  misery, 

And  rumors  of  desertion ;    but  your  pen 

Revealed  no  secrets  of  your  altered  life. 

Enough  for  me  that  you  are  here  to-night, 

And  have  an  ear  for  sorrow,  and  a  heart 

Which  disappointment  has  inhabited. 


BITTEK-SWEET.  103 

My  history  you  know.     A  twelvemonth  since 

This  fearful,  festive  night,  and  in  this  house, 

I  gave  my  hand  to  one  whom  I  believed 

To  be  the  noblest  man  God  ever  made ; — 

A  man  who  seemed  to  my  infatuate  heart 

Heaven's  chosen  genius,  through  whose  tuneful  soul 

The  choicest  harmonies  of  life  should  flow, 

Growing  articulate  upon  his  lips 

In  numbers  to  enchant  a  willing  world. 

I  cannot  tell  you  of  the  pride  that  filled 

My  bosom,  as  I  marked  his  manly  form, 

And  read  his  soul  through  his  effulgent  eyes, 

And  heard  the  wondrous  music  of  his  voice, 

That  swept  the  chords  of  feeling  in  all  hearts 

With  such  divine  persuasion  as  might  grow 

Under  the  transit  of  an  angel's  hand. 

And,  then,  to  think  that  I,  a  farmer's  child, 

Should  be  the  woman  culled  from  all  the  world 

To  be  that  man's  companion, — to  abide 

The  nearest  soul  to  such  a  soul — to  sit 


104  BITTER-SWEET. 

Close  by  the  fountain  of  his  peerless  life — 
The  welling  centre  of  his  loving  thoughts — 
And  drink,  myself,  the  sweetest  and  the  best, — 
To  lay  my  head  upon  his  breast,  and  feel 
That  of  all  precious  burdens  it  had  borne 
That  was  most  precious — Oh  !    my  heart  was  wild 
With  the  delirium  of  happiness — 
But,  Mary,  you  are  weeping  ! 

MARY. 

Mark  it  not. 

Your  words  wake  memories  which  you  may  guess, 
And  thoughts  which  you  may  sometime  know — not  now. 

GRACE. 

Well,  we  were  married,  as  I  said;    and  I 
Was  not  unthankful  utterly,  I  think ; 
Though,  if  the  awful  question  had  come  then, 
And  stood  before  me  with  a  brow  severe 
And  steady  finger,  bidding  me  decide 


BITTER-SWEET.  105 

Which  of  the  two  I  loved  the  more,  the  God 

Who  gave  my  husband  to  me,  or  his  gift, 

I  know  I  should  have  groaned,  and  shut  my  eyes. 

We  passed  a  honeymoon  whose  atmosphere, 

Flooded  with  inspiration,  and  embraced 

By  a  wide  sky  set  full  of  starry  thoughts, 

And  constellated  visions  of  delight, 

Still  wraps  me  in  my  dreams — itself  a  dream. 

The  full  moon  waned  at  last,  and  in  my  sky, 

With  horn  inverted,  gave  its  sign  of  tears ; 

And  then,  when  wasted  to  a  skeleton, 

It  sank  into  a  heaving  sea  of  tears 

That  caught  its  tumult  from  my  sighing  soul. 

My  husband,  who  had  spent  whole  months  with  me, 

Till  lie  was  wedded  to  my  every  thought, 

Left  me  through  dreary  hours, — nay,  days, — alone  I 

He  pleaded  business — business  day  and  night ; 

Leaving  me  with  a  formal  kiss  at  morn, 

And  meeting  me  with  strange  reserve  at  eve ; 

5* 


103  BITTER-S  WBET. 

And  I  could  mark  the  sea  of  tenderness 

Upon  whose  beach  I  had  sat  down  for  life, 

Hoping  to  feel  for  ever,  as  at  first, 

The  love-breeze  from  its  billows,  and  to  clasp 

With  open  arms  the  silver  surf  that  ran 

To  wreck  itself  upon  my  bosom,  ebb, 

Day  after  day  receding,  till  the  sand 

Grew  dry  and  hot,  and  the  old  hulls  appeared 

Of  hopes  sent  out  upon  that  faithless  main 

Since  woman  loved,  and  he  she  loved  was  false. 

Night  after  night  I  sat  the  evening  out, 

And  heard  the  clock  tick  on  the  mantel-tree 

Till  it  grew  irksome  to  me,  and  I  grudged 

The  careless  pleasures  of  the  kitchen  maids 

Whose  distant  laughter  shocked  the  lapsing  hours. 

MART. 

But  did  your  husband  never  tell  the  causG 
Of  this  neglect  ? 


BITTER-SWEET.  107 

GRACE. 

Never  an  honest  word. 
He  told  me  he  was  writing;  and,  at  home, 
Sat  down  with  heart  absorbed  and  absent  look. 
I  was  offended,  and  upbraided  him. 
I  knew  he  had  a  secret,  and  that  from 
The  centre  of  its  closely  coiling  folds 
A  cunning  serpent's  head,  with  forked  tongue, 
Swayed  with  a  double  story — one  for  me, 
And  one  for  whom  I  knew  not — whom  he  knew. 
His  words,  which  wandered  first  as  carelessly 
As  the  free  footsteps  of  a  boy,  were  trained 
To  the  stern  paces  of  a  sentinel 
Guarding  a  prison  door,  and  never  tripped 
With  a  suggestion. 

I  despaired  at  last 

Of  winning  what  I  sought  by  wiles  and  prayers ; 
So,  through  long  nights  of  sleeplessness  I  lay, 
And  held  my  ear  beside  his  silent  lips — 


108  BITTER-SWEET. 

An  eager  cup — ready  to  catch  the  gush 

Of  the  pent  waters,  if  a  dream-swung  rod 

Should  smite  his  bosom.     It  was  all  in  vain. 

And  thus  months  passed  away,  and  all  the  while 

Another  heart  was  beating  under  mine. 

May  Heaven  forgive  me  !    but  I  grieved  the  charms 

The  unborn  thing  was  stealing,  for  I  felt 

That  in  my  insufficiency  of  power 

I  had  no  charm  to  lose. 

MARY. 

And  did  he  not, 

In  this  most  tender  trial  of  your  heart, 
Turn  in  relenting  ? — give  you  sympathy  ? 

GRACE. 

No — yes  !     Perhaps  he  pitied  me,  and  that 
Indeed  was  very  pitiful ;    for  what 
Has  love  to  do  with  pity  ?     When  a  wife 
Has  sunk  so  hopelessly  in  the  regard 


BITTER-SWEET.  109 

Of  him  she  loves  that  he  can  pity  her, — 

lias  sunk  so  low  that  she  may  only  share 

The  tribute  which  a  mute  humanity 

Bestows  on  those  whom  Providence  has  struck 

With  helpless  poverty,  or  foul  disease ; 

She  may  be  pitied,  both  by  earth  and  heaven, 

Because  he  pities  her.     A  pitied  child 

That  begs  its  bread  from  door  to  door  is  blest ; 

A  wife  who  begs  for  love  and  confidence, 

And  gets  but  alms  from  pity,  is  accurst. 

Well,  time  passed  on  ;    and  rumor  came  at  last 
To  tell  the  story  of  my  husband's  shame 
And  my  dishonor.     He  was  seen  at  night, 
Walking  in  lonely  streets  with  one  whose  eyes 
Were  blacker  than  the  night, — whose  little  hand 
Was  clinging  to  his  arm.     Both  were  absorbed 
In  the  half-whispered  converse  of  the  time ; 
And  both,  as  if  accustomed  to  the  path, 
Turned  down  an  alley,  climbed  a  flight  of  steps, 


110  BITTER-SWEET. 

Entered  a  door,  and  closed  it  after  them — 

A  door  of  adamant  'twixt  hope  and  me. 

I  had  my  secret ;   and  I  kept  it,  too. 

I  knew  his  haunt,  and  it  was  watched  for  me, 

Till  doubt  and  prayers  for  doubt, — pale  flowers 

I  nourished  with  my  tears — were  crushed 

By  the  relentless  hand  of  Certainty. 

Oh,  Mary  !  Mary !     Those  were  fearful  days. 
My  wrongs  and  all  their  shameful  history 
Were  opened  to  me  daily,  leaf  by  leaf, 
Though  he  had  only  shown  their  title-page: 
That  page  was  his ;   the  rest  were  in  my  heart. 
I  knew  that  he  had  left  my  home  for  her's; 
I  knew  his  nightly  labor  was  to  feed 
Other  than  me ; — that  he  was  loaded  down 
With  cares  that  were  the  price  of  sinful  love. 

MAKY. 
Grace,  in  your  heart  do  you  believe  all  this? 


BITTER-SWEET.  Ill 

I  fear — I  know — you  do  your  husband  wrong. 
He  is  not  competent  for  treachery. 
lie  is  too  good,  too  noble,  to  desert 
The  woman  whom  he  only  loves  too  well. 
You  love  him  not! 

GRACE. 

I  love  him  not?   Alas! 
I  am  more  angry  with  myself  than  him 
That,  spite  his  falsehood  to  'his  marriage  vows, 
And  spite  my  hate,  I  love  the  traitor  still. 
I  love  him  not?   Why  am  I  here  to-night — 
Here  where  my  girlhood's  withered  hopes  are  strewn 
Through  every  room  for  him  to  trample  on — 
But  in  my  pride  to  show  him  to  you  all, 
With  the  dear  child  that  publishes  a  love 
That  blessed  me  once,  e'en  if  it  curse  me  now  ? 
You  know  I  do  my  husband  wrong !     You  think, 
Because  he  can  talk  smoothly,  and  befool 
A  simple  ear  with  pious  sophistries, 


112  BITTER -SWEET. 

He  must  be  e'en  the  saintly  man  he  seems. 

We  heard  him  talk  to-night ;   it  was  done  well. 

I  saw  the  triumph  of  his  argument, 

And  I  was  proud,  though  full  of  spite  the  while. 

His  stuff  was  meant  for  me ;   and,  with  intent, 

For  selfish  purpose,  or  in  irony, 

He  tossed  me  bitterness,  and  called  it  sweet. 

My  heart  rebelled,  and  now  you  know  the  cause 

Of  my  harsh  words  to  him. 

MARY. 

'Tis  very  sad ! 

Oh  very — very  sad  !     Pray  you  go  on ! 
Who  is  this  woman? 

GKACE. 

I  have  never  learned. 

I  only  know  she  stole  my  husband's  heart, 
And  made  me  very  wretched.     I  suppose 
That  at  the  time  my  little  babe  was  born, 


BITTER-SWEET.  113 

She  went  away;   for  David  was  at  home 
For  many  days.     That  pain  was  bliss  to  me — 
I  need  no  argument  to  teach  me  that — 
Which  caused  neglect  of  her,  and  gave  offence. 
Since  then,  he  has  not  where  to  go  from  me; 
And,  loving  well  his  child,  he  stays  at  home. 

So  he  lugs  round  his  secret,  and  I  mine. 

I  call  him,  husband ;   and  he  calls  me,  wife ; 

And  I,  who  once  was  like  an  April  day, 

That  finds  quick  tears  in  every  cloud,  have  steeled 

My  heart  against  my  fate,  and  now  am  calm. 

I  will  live  on ;   and  though  these  simple  folk 

Who  call  me  sister  understand  me  not, 

It  matters  little.    There  is  one  who  does; 

And  he  shall  have  no  liberty  of  love 

By  any  word  of  mine.     'Tis  woman's  lot, 

And  man's  most  weak  and  wicked  wantonness. 

Mine  is  like  other  husbands,  I  suppose  ; 

No  worse — no  better. 


114  BITTER-SWEET. 

MAEY. 

Ask  you  sympathy 
Of  such  as  I  ?     I  cannot  give  it  you, 
For  you  have   shut  me  from  the  privilege. 

GEACE. 

I  asked  it  once;   you  gave  me  unbelief. 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  grow  hard  again. 
'Tis  my  misfortune  and  my  misery 
That  every  hand  whose  friendly  ministry 
My  poor  heart  craves,  is  held — withheld — by  him ; 
And  I  must  freeze  that  I  may  stand  alone. 

MAEY. 

And  so,  because  one  man  is  false,  or  you 
Imagine  him  to  be,  all  men  are  false; 
Do  I  speak  rightly? 

GEACEl. 

Have  it  your  own  way. 
Men  fit  to  love,  and  fitted  to  be  loved, 


BIT  TEH- SWEET.  115 

Arc  prone  to  falsehood.     I  will  not  gainsay 
The  common  virtue  of  the  common  herd. 
I  prize  it  as  I  do  the  goodish  men 
Who  hold  the  goodish  stuff,  and  know  it  not. 
These  serve  to  fill  an  easy-going  world, 
And  that  to  clothe  it  with  complacency. 

MATIY. 

I  had  not  thought  misanthropy  like  this 
Could  lodge  with  you ;   so  I  must  e'en  confess 
A  tale  which  never  passed  my  lips  before, 
Nor  sent  its  flush  to  any  cheek  but  mine. 
In  this,  I'll  prove  my  friendship,  if  I  lose 
The  friendship  which  demands  the  sacrifice. 

I  have  come  back,  a  worse  than  widowed  wife  ; 
Yet  I  went  out  with  dream  as  bright  as  yours, — 
Xny,  brighter, — for  the  birds  were  singing  then, 
And  apple-blossoms  drifted  on  the  ground 
Where  snow-flakes  fell  and  flew  when  you  were  wed. 


116  BITTER-SWEET. 

The  skies  were  soft;   the  roses  budded  full; 

The  meads  and  swelling  uplands  fresh  and  green ;- 

The  very  atmosphere  was  full  of  love. 

It  was  no  girlish  carelessness  of  heart 

That  kept  my  eyes  from  tears,  as  I  went  forth 

From  this  dear  shelter  of  the  orphan  child. 

I  felt  that  God  was  smiling  on  my  lot, 

And  made  the  airs  his  angels  to  convey 

To  every  sense  and  sensibility 

The  message  of  his  favor.     Every  sound 

Was  music  to  me;   every  sight  was  peace; 

And  breathing  was  the  drinking  of  perfume. 

I  said,  content,  and  full  of  gratitude, 

"  This  is  as  God  would  have  it ;   and  he  speaks 

These  pleasant  languages  to  tell  me  so." 

But  I  had  no  such  honey-moon  as  yours. 
A  few  brief  days  of  happiness,  and  then 
The  dream  was  over.     I  had  married  one 
Who  was  the  sport  of  vagrant  impulses. 


BITTER-SWEET.  117 

We  had  not  been  a  fortnight  wed,  when  he 

Came  home  to  me  with  brandy  in  his  brain — 

A  maudlin  fool — for  love  like  mine  to  hide 

As  if  he  were  an  unclean  beast.     O  Grace  I 

I  cannot  paint  the  horrors  of  that  night. 

My  heart,  till  then  serene,  and  safely  kept 

In  Trust's  strong  citadel,  quaked  all  night  long, 

As  tower  and  bastion  fell  before  the  rush 

Of  fierce  convictions ;   and  the  tumbling  walls 

Boomed  with  dull  throbs  of  rum  through  my  brain. 

And  there  were  palaces  that  leaned  on  this — 

Castles  of  air,  in  long  and  glittering  lines, 

Which  melted  into  air,  and  pierced  the  blue 

That  marks  the  star-strewn  vault  of  heaven ; — all  fell, 

With  a  faint  crash  like  that  which  scares  the  soul 

When  dissolution  shivers  through  a  dream 

Smitten  by  nightmare, — fell  and  faded  all 

To  utter  nothingness;   and  when  the  morn 

Flamed  up  the  East,  and  with  its  crimson  wings 

Brushed  out  the  paling  stars  that  all  the  night 


118  BITTER-SWEET. 

In  silent,  slow  procession,  one  by  one, 
Had  gazed  upon  me  through  the  open  sash, 
And  passed  along,  it  found  me  desolate. 

The  stupid  dreamer  at  my  side  awoke, 

And  with  such  helpless  anguish  as  they  feel 

Who  know  that  they  are  weak  as  well  as  vile. 

I  saw,  through  all  his  forward  promises, 

Excuses,  prayers,  and  pledges  that  were  oaths 

(What  he,  poor  boaster,  thought  I  could  not  see), 

That  he  was  shorn  of  will,  and  that  his  heart 

Was  as  defenceless  as  a  little  child's ; — 

That  underneath  his  fair  good  fellowship 

He  was  debauched,  and  dead  in  love  with  sin ; — 

That  love  of  me  had  made  him  what  I  loved, — 

That  I  could  only  hold  him  till  the  wave 

Of  some  o'erwhelming  impulse  should  sweep  in, 

To  lift  his  feet  and  bear  him  from  my  arms. 

I  felt  that  morn,  when  he  went  trembling  forth, 

With  bloodshot  eyes  and  forehead  hot  with  woe, 


BITTER-SWEET.  119 

That  thenceforth  strife  would  be  'twixt  Hell   and   me — 
The  odds  against  me — for  my  husband's  soul. 

GRACE. 

Poor  dove  !     Poor  Mary  !     Have  you  suffered  thus  ? 
You  had  not  even  pride  to  keep  you  up. 
Were  he  my  husband,  I  had  left  him  then — 
The  ingrate  ! 

HAKY. 

"Not  if  you  had  loved  as  I  ; 
Yet  what  you  know  is  but  a  bitter  drop 
Of  the  full  cup  of  gall  that  I  have   drained. 
Had  he  left  me  unstained, — had  I  rebelled 
Against  the  influence  by  which  he  sought 
To  bring  me  to  a  compromise  with  him, — 
To  make  my  shrinking  soul  meet  his  half  way,-— 
It  had  been  better  ;   but  he  had  an  art, 
When  appetite  or  passion  moved  in  him, 
That  clothed  his  sins  with  fair  apologies, 


120  BITTEE-SWEET. 

And  smoothed  the  wrinkles  of  a  haggard  guilt 

With  the  good-natured  hand  of  charity. 

He  knew  he  was  a  fool,  he  said,  and  said  again; 

But  human  nature  would  be  what  it  was, 

And  life  had  never  zest  enough  to  bear 

Too  much  dilution ;   those  who  work  like  slaves 

Must  have  their  days  of  frolic  and  of  fun. 

He  doubted  whether  God  would  punish  sin ; 

God  was,  in  fact,  too  good  to  punish  sin; 

For  sin  itself  was  a  compounded  thing, 

With  weakness  for  its  prime  ingredient. 

And  thus  he  fooled  a  heart  that  loved  him  well; 

And  it  went  toward  his  heart  by  slow  degrees, 

Till  Virtue  seemed  a  frigid  anchorite, 

And  Vice,  a  jolly  fellow — bad  enough, 

But  not  so  bad  as  Christian  people  think. 

This  was  the  cunning  work  of  months — nay,  years ; 
And,  meantime,  Edward  sank  from  bad  to  worse. 
But  he  had  conquered.     Wine  was  on  his  board, 


BITTER-SWEET.  121 

Without  my  protest — with  a  glass  for  me ! 
His  boon  companions  came  and  went,  and  made 
My  home  their  rendezvous  with  my  consent. 
The  doughty  oath  that  shocked  my  ears  at  first, 
The  doubtful  jest  that  meant,  or  might  not  mean, 
That  which  should  set  a  woman's  brow  aflame, 
Became  at  last  (oh,  shame  of  womanhood  !) 
A  thing  to  frown  at  with  a  covert  smile  ; 
A  thing  to  smile  at  with  a  decent  frown  ; 
A  thing  to  steal  a  grace  from,  as  I  feigned 
The  innocence  of  deaf  unconsciousness. 
And  I  became  a  jester.    I  could  jest 
In  a  wild  way  on  sacred  things  and  themes ; 
And  I  have  thought  that  in  his  better  moods 
My  husband  shrank  with  horror  from  the  work 
Which  he  had  wrought  in  me. 

I  do  not  know 

If,  during  all  these  downward-tending  years, 
Edward  kept  well  his  faith  with  me.     I  know 


122  BITTER-SWEET. 

He  used  to  tell  me,  in  his  boastful  way, 
How  he  had  broke  the  hearts  of  pretty  maids, 
And  that  if  he  were  single — well-a-day  ! 
The  time  was  past  for  thinking  upon  that  J 
And  I  had  heart  to  toss  the  badinage 
Back  in  his  teeth,  with  pay  of  kindred  coin ; 
And  tell  him  lies  to  stir  his  bestial  mirth  ; 
And  make  my  boast  of  conquests;  and  pretend 
That  the  true  heart  I  had  bestowed  on  him 
Had  flown,  and  left  him  but  an  empty  hand. 

I  had  some  days  of  pain  and  penitence. 
I  saw  where  all  must  end.     I  saw,  too  well, 
Edward  was  growing  idle, — that  his  form 
Was  gathering  disgustful  corpulence, — 
That  he  was  going  down,  and  dragging  me 
To  shame  and  ruin,  beggary  and  death. 
But  judgment  came,  and  overshadowed  us ; 
And  one  quick  bolt  shot  from  the  awful  cloud 
Severed  the  tie  that  bound  two  worthless  lives. 


BITTER-SWEET  123 

What  God  hath  joined  together,  God  may  part : — 
Grace,  have  you  thought  of  that  ? 

GKACE. 

You  scare  me,  Mary ! 

!N ay!     Do  not  turn  on  me  with  such  a  look! 
Its  dread  suggestion  gives  my  heart  a  pang 
That  stops  its  painful  beating. 

MAEY. 

Let  it  pass ! 

One  morn  we  woke  with  the  first  flush  of  light, 
Our  windows  jarring  with  the  cannonade 
That  ushered  in  the  nation's  festal  day. 
The  village  streets  were  full  of  men  and  boys, 
And  resonant  with  rattling  mimicry 
Of  the  black-throated  monsters  on  the  hill,— 
A  crashing,  crepitating  war  of  fire, — 
And  as  we  listened  to  the  fitful  feud, 
Dull  detonations  came  from  far  away, 


124  BITTER-SWEET. 

Pulsing  along  the  fretted  atmosphere, 

To  tell  that  in  the  ruder  villages 

The  day  had  noisy  greeting,  as  in  ours. 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  then,  and  there, 

I  felt  a  sinking  sadness,  passing  tears — 

A  dark  foreboding  I  could  not  dissolve, 

Nor  drive  away.     But  when,  next  morn,  I  woke 

In  the  sweet  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  day, 

And  found  myself  alone,  I  knew  that  hearts 

Which  once  have  been  God's  temple,  and  in  which 

Something  divine  still  lingers,  feel  the  throb 

Along  the  lines  that  bind  them  to  The  Throne 

When  judgment  issues ;  and,  though  dumb  and  blind, 

Shudder  and  faint  with  prophecies  of  ill. 

How — by  what  cause — calamity  should  come, 

I  could  not  guess ;  that  it  was  imminent, 

Seemed  just  as  certain  as  the  morning's  dawn. 

We  were  to  have  a  gala  day,  indeed. 


BITTEE-SWEET.  125 

There  were  to  be  processions  and  parades  ; 

A  great  oration  in  a  mammoth  tent, 

With  dinner  following,  and  toast  and  speech 

By  all  the  wordy  magnates  of  the  town ; 

A  grand  balloon  ascension  afterwards ; 

And,  in  the  evening,  fireworks  on  the  hill. 

I  knew  that  drink  would  flow  from  morn  till  night 

In  a  wild  maelstrom,  circling  slow  around 

The  village  rim,  in  bright  careering  waves, 

But  growing  turbulent,  and  changed  to  ink 

Around  the  village  centre,  till,  at  last, 

The  whirling,  gurgling  vortex  would  engulf 

A  maddened  multitude  in  drunkenness. 

And  this  was  in  my  thought  (the  while  my  heart 

Was  palpitating  with  its  nameless  fear), 

As,  wrapped  in  vaguest  dreams,  and  purposeless, 

I  laced  my  shoe  and  gazed  upon  the  sky. 

Then  strange  determination  stirred  in  me ; 

And,  turning  sharply  on  my  chair,  I  said, 

"  Edward,  where'er  you  go  to-day,  I  go  !" 


126  BITTER-SWEET. 

If  I  had  smitten  him  upon  the  face, 

It  had  not  tingled  with  a  hotter  flame. 

He  turned  upon  me  with  a  look  of  hate — 

A  something  worse  than  anger — and,  with  oaths, 

Raved  like  a  fiend,  and  cursed  me  for  a  fool. 

But  I  was  firm ;   he  could  not  shake  my  will ; 

So,  through  the  morning,  until  afternoon, 

He  stayed  at  home,  and  drank  and  drank  again, 

Watching  the  clock,  and  pacing  up  and  down, 

Until,  at  length,  he  came  and  sat  by  me, 

To  try  his  hackneyed  tricks  of  blandishment. 

He  had  not  meant,  he  said,  to  give  offence; 

But  women  in  a  crowd  were  out  of  place. 

He  wished  to  see  the  aeronauts  embark, 

And  meet  some  friends;   but  there  would  be  a  throng 

Of  boys  and  drunken  boors  around  the  car, 

And  I  should  not  enjoy  it;   more  than  this, 

The  rise  would  be  a  finer  spectacle 

At  home  than  on  the  ground.     I  gave  assent, 

And  he  went  out.     Of  course,  I  followed  him  ; 


BITTER-SWEET.  127 

For  I  had  learned  to  read  him,  and  I  knew 
There  was  some  precious  scheme  of  sin  on  foot. 

The  crowd  was  heavy,  and  his  form  was  lost 
Quick  as  it  touched  the  mass;   but  I  pressed  on, 
Wild  shouts  and  laughter  punishing  my  ears, 
Till  I  could  see  the  bloated,  breathing  cone, 
As  if  it  were  some  monster  of  the  sky 
Caught  by  a  net  and  fastened  to  the  earth — 
A  butt  for  jeers  to  all  the  merry  mob. 
But  I  was  distant  still;   and  if  a  man 
In  mad  impatience  tore  a  passage  from 
The  crowd  that  pressed  upon  him,  or  a  girl, 
Frightened  or  fainting,  was  allowed  escape, 
I  slid  like  water  to  the  vacant  space, 
And  thus,  by  deftly  won  advances,  gained 
The  stand  I  coveted. 

We  waited  long; 
And  as  the  curious  gazers  stood  and  talked 


128  BITTER-SWEET. 

About  the  diverse  currents  of  the  air, 
And  wondered  where  the  daring  voyagers 
Would  find  a  landing-place,  a  young  man  said, 
In  words  intended  for  a  spicy  jest, 
A  man  and  woman  living  in  the  town 
Had  taken  passage  overland  for  hell! 

Then  at  a  distance  rose  a  scattering  shout 

That  fixed  the  vision  of  the  multitude, 

Standing  on  eager  tiptoe,  and  afar 

I  saw  the  crowd  give  way,  and  make  a  path 

For  the  pale  heroes  of  the  crazy  hour. 

Hats  were  tossed  wildly  as  they  struggled  on, 

And  the  gap  closed  behind  them,  till,  at  length, 

They  stood  within  the  ring.     Oh,  damning  sight ! 

The  woman  was  a  painted  courtezan ; 

The  man,  my  husband !     I  was  dumb  as  death. 

My  teeth  were  clenched  together  like  a  vice, 

And  every  heavy  heart-throb  was  a  chill. 

But  there  I  stood,  and  saw  the  shame  go  on. 


BITTER-SWEET.  129 

They  took  their  seats ;   the  signal  gun  was  fired ; 
The  cords  were  loosed ;    and  then  the  billowy  bulk 
Shot  toward  the  zenith! 

Never  bent  the  sky 

With  a  more  cloudless  depth  of  blue  than  then ; 
And,  as  they  rose,  I  saw  his  faithless  arm 
Slide  o'er  her  shoulder,  and  her  dizzy  head 
Drop  on  his  breast.     Then  I  became  insane. 
I  felt  that  I  was  struggling  with  a  dream — 
A  horrid  phantasm  I  could  not  shake  off. 
The  hollow  sky  was  swinging  like  a  bell ; 
The  silken  monster  swinging  like  its  tongue; 
And  as  it  reeled  from  side  to  side,  the  roar 
Of  voices  round  me  rang,  and  rang  again, 
Tolling  the  dreadful  knell  of  my  despair. 

At  the  last  moment  I  could  trace  his  form, 
Edward  leaned  over  from  his  giddy  seat, 
And  tossed  out  something  on  the  air.     I  saw 


130  BITTEK-SWEET. 

The  little  missive  fluttering  slowly  down, 

And  stretched  my  hand  to  catch  it,  for  I  knew, 

Or  thought  I  knew,  that  it  would  come  to  me. 

And  it  did  come  to  me — as  if  it  slid 

Upon  the  cord  that  bound  my  heart  to  his — 

Strained  to  its  utmost  tension — snapped  at  last. 

I  marked  it  as  it  fell.     It  was  a  rose. 

I  grasped  it  madly  as  it  struck  my  hand, 

And  buried  all  its  thorns  within  my  palm ; 

But  the  fierce  pain  released  my  prisoned  voice, 

And,  with  a  shriek,  I  staggered,  swooned,  and  fell. 

That  night  was  brushed  from  life.     A  passing  friend 

Directed  those  who  bore  me  rudely  off; 

And  I  was  carried  to  my  home,  and  laid 

Entranced  upon  my  bed.     The  Sabbath  morn 

That  followed  all  this  din  and  devilry 

Swung  noiseless  wide  its  doors  of  yellow  light, 

And  in  the  hallowed  stillness  I  awoke. 

My  heart  was  still ;   I  could  not  stir  a  hand. 


B  I  T  T  E  R  -  S  W  E  E  T  .  131 

I  thought  that  I  was  dying,  or  was  dead, — 

That  I  had  slipped  through  smooth  unconsciousness 

Into  the  everlasting  silences. 

I  could  not  speak ;   but  winning  strength,  at  last, 

I  turned  my  eyes  to  seek  for  Edward's  face, 

And  saw  an  unpressed  pillow.     He  was  gone! 

I  was  oppressed  with  awful  sense  of  loss ; 

And,  as  a  mother,  by  a  turbid  sea 

That  has  engulfed  her  fairest  child,  sits  down 

And  moans  over  the  waters,  and  looks  out 

With  curious  despair  upon  the  waves, 

Until  she  marks  a  lock  of  floating  hair, 

And  by  its  threads  of  gold  draws  slowly  in, 

And  clasps  and  presses  to  her  frenzied  breast 

The  form  it  has  no  power  to  warm  again, 

So  I,  beside  the  sea  of  memory, 

Lay  feebly  moaning,  yearning  for  a  clew 

By  which  to  reach  my  own  extinguished  life. 

It  came.     A  burning  pain  shot  through  my  palm, 


132  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  thorns  awoke  what  thorns  had  put  to  sleep. 
It  all  came  back  to  me — the  roar,  the  rush, 
The  upturned  faces,  the  insane  hurras, 
The  skyward  shooting  spectacle,  the  shame — 
And  then  I  swooned  again. 

GRACE. 

But  was  he  killed  ? 

Did  his  foolhardy  venture  end  in  wreck? 
Or  did  it  end  in  something  worse  than  wreck? 
Surely,  he  came  again! 

MAKY. 

To  me,  no  more. 

He  had  his  reasons,  and  I  knew  them  soon ; 
But,  first,  the  fire  enkindled  in  my  brain 
Burnt  through  long  weeks  of  fever — burnt  my  frame- 
Until  it  lay  upon  the  sheet  as  white 
As  the  pale  ashes  of  a  wasted  coal. 
Then,  when  strength  came  to  me,  and  I  could  sit, 


BITTER-SWEET.  133 

Braced  by  the  double  pillows  that  were  mine, 
A  kind  friend  took  my  hand,  and  told  me  all. 

The  day  that  Edward  left  me  was  the  last 

He  could  have  been  my  husband;  for  the  next 

Disclosed  his  infamy  and  my  disgrace. 

He  was  a  thief,  and  had  been  one,  for  years, — • 

Defrauding  those  whose  gold  he  held  in  trust; 

And  he  was  ruined — ruined  utterly. 

The  very  bed  I  sat  on  wras  not  his, 

Nor  mine,  except  by  tender  charity. 

A  guilty  secret  menacing  behind, 

A  guilty  passion  burning  in  his  heart, 

And,  by  his  side,  a  guilty  paramour, 

He  seized  upon  this  reckless  whim,  and  fled 

From  those  he  knew  would  curse  him  ere  he  slept. 

My  cup  was  filled  with  wormwood ;  and  it  grew 
Bitter  and  still  more  bitter,  day  by  day, 
Changing  from  shame  and  hate,  to  stern  revenge. 


134:  BITTER-SWEET. 

Life  had  no  more  for  mo.    My  home  was  lost; 

My  heart  unfitted  to  return  to  this; 

And,  reckless  of  the  future,  I  went  forth — 

A  woman  stricken,  maddened,  desperate. 

I  sought  the  city  with  as  sure  a  scent 

As  vultures  track  a  carcass  through  the  air. 

I  knew  him  there,  delivered  up  to  sin, 

And  longed  to  taunt  him  with  his  infamy, — 

To  haunt  his  haunts;  to  sting  his  perjured  soul 

With  sharp  reproaches;  and  to  scare  his  eyes 

With  visions  of  his  work  upon  my  face. 

But  God  had  other  means  than  my  revenge 
To  humble  him,  and  other  thought  for  me. 
I  saw  him  only  once ;  we  did  not  meet ; 
There  was  a  street  between  us;  yet  it  seemed 
Wide  as  the  unbridged  gulf  that  yawns  between 
The  rich  man  and  the  beggar. 

'Twas  at  dawn. 


BITTER-SWEET.  135 

I  had  arisen  from  the  sleepless  bed 

Which  my  scant  means  had  purchased,  and  gone  forth 

To  taste  the  air,  and  cool  my  burning  brow. 

I  wandered  on,  not  knowing  where  I  went, 

Nor  caring  whither.     There  were  few  astir; 

The  market  wagons  lumbered  slowly  in, 

Piled  high  with  carcasses  of  slaughtered  lambs, 

Baskets  of  unhusked  corn,  and  mint,  and  all 

The  fresh,  green  things  that  grow  in  country  fields. 

I  read  the  signs — the  long  and  curious  names — 

And  wondered  who  invented  them,  and  if 

Their  owners  knew  how  very  strange  they  were. 

A  corps  of  weary  firemen  met  me  once, 

Late  home  from  service,  with  their  gaudy  car, 

And  loud  with  careless  curses.     Then  I  stopped, 

And  chatted  with  a  frowsy-headed  girl 

Who  knelt  among  her  draggled  skirts,  and  scrubbed 

The  heel-worn  door-steps  of  a  faded  house. 

Then,  as  I  left  her,  and  resumed  my  walk, 

I  turned  my  eyes  across  the  street,  and  saw 


136  BITTER-SWEET. 

A  sight  which  stopped  my  feet,  my  breath,  my  heart. 

It  was  my  husband.     Oh,  how  sadly  changed ! 

His  bloodshot  eyes  stared  from  an  anxious  face; 

His  hat  was  battered,  and  his  clothes  were  torn 

And  splashed  with  mud.     His  poisoned  frame 

Had  shrunk  away,  until  his  garments  hung 

In  folds  about  him.     Then  I  knew  it  all: 

His  life  had  been  a  measureless  debauch 

Since  his  most  shameless  flight;  and  in  his  eye, 

Eager  and  strained,  and  peering  down  the  stairs 

That  tumbled  to  the  ante-rooms  of  hell, 

I  saw  the  thirst  which  only  death  can  quench. 

He  did  not  raise  his  eyes ;  I  did  not  speak ; 

There  was  no  work  for  me  to  do  on  him; 

And  when,  at  last,  he  tottered  down  the  steps 

Of  a  dark  gin-shop,  I  was  satisfied, 

And  half  relentingly  retraced  my  way. 

I  cannot  tell  the  story  of  the  months 

That  followed  this.     I  toiled  and  toiled  for  bread. 


BITTER-SWEET.  137 

And  for  the  shelter  of  one  stingy  room. 
Temptation,  which  the  hand  of  poverty 
Bears  oft  seductively  to  woman's  lips, 
To  me  came  not.     I  hated  men  like  beasts; 
Their  flattering  words,  and  wicked,  wanton  leers, 
Sickened  me  with  ineffable  disgust. 

At  length  there  came  a  change.     One  warm  Spring  eve; 

As  I  sat  idly  dreaming  of  the  past, 

And  questioning  the  future,  my  quick  ear 

Caught  sound  of  feet  upon  the  creaking  stairs, 

And  a  light  rap  delivered  at  my  door. 

I  said,  "Come  in!"  with  half  defiant  voice, 

Although  I  longed  to  see  a  human  face, 

And  needed  labor  for  my  idle  hands. 

But  when  the  door  was  opened,  and  there  stood 

A  man  before  me,  with  an  eye  as  pure 

And  brow  as  fair  as  any  little  child's, 

Matched  with  a  form  and  carriage  which  combined 

All  manly  beauty,  dignity,  and  grace, 


138  BITTER-SWEET. 

A  quick  blush  overwhelmed  my  pallid  cheeks, 
And,  ere  I  knew,  and  by  no  act  of  will, 
I  rose  and  gave  him  gentle  courtesy. 

He  took  a  seat,  and  spoke  with  pleasant  voice 
Of  many  pleasant  things — the  pleasant  sky, 
The  stars,  the  opening  foliage  in  the  park ; 
And  then  he  came  to  business.     He  would  have 
A  piece  of  exquisite  embroidery ; 
My  hand  was  cunning  if  report  were  true ; 
Would  it  oblige  him?    It  would  do,  I  said, 
That  which  it  could  to  satisfy  his  wish; 
And  when  he  took  the  delicate  pattern  out, 
And  spread  the  dainty  fabric  on  his  knees, 
I  knew  he  had  a  wife. 

He  went  away 

With  kind  "  Good  night,"  and  said  that,  with  my  leave, 
He'd  call  and  watch  the  progress  of  the  work. 
I  marked  his  careful  steps  adown  the  stairs, 


BITTER-SWEET.  139 

And  then,  his  brisk,  firm  tread  upon  the  pave, 

Till  in  the  dull  roar  of  the  distant  streets 

It  mingled  and  was  lost.     Then  I  was  lost, — 

Lost  in  a  wild,  wide-ranging  reverie — 

From  which  I  roused  not  till  the  midnight  hush 

Was  broken  by  the  toll  from  twenty  towers. 

This  is  a  man,  I  said ;  a  man  in  truth ; 

My  room  has  known  the  presence  of  a  man, 

And  it  has  gathered  dignity  from  him. 

I  felt  my  being  flooded  with  new  life. 

My  heart  was  warm  ;   my  poor,  sore-footed  thoughts 

Sprang  up  full  fledged  through  ether  ;  and  I  felt 

Like  the  sick  woman  who  had  touched  the  hem 

Of  Jesus'  garment,  when  through  all  her  veins 

Leaped  the  swift  tides  of  youth. 

He  had  a  wife  ! 

Why,  to  a  wrecked,  forsaken  thing  like  me 
Did  that  thought  bring  a  pang  ?     I  did  not  know; 


140  BITTER-SWEET. 

But,  truth  to  tell,  it  gave  me  stinging  pain. 

If  he  was  noble,  he  was  naught  to  me  ; 

If  he  was  great,  it  only  made  me  less  ; 

If  he  loved  truly,  I  was  not  enriched. 

So,  in  my  selfishness,  I  almost  cursed 

The  unknown  woman,  thought  for  whom  had  brought 

Her  loving  husband  to  me.     What  was  I 

To  him  ?     Naught  but  a  poor  unfortunate, 

Picking  her  bread  up  at  a  needle's  point. 

He'll  come  and  criticise  my  handiwork, 

I  said,  and  when  it  is  at  last  complete, 

He'll  draw  his  purse  and  give  me  so  much  gold  ; 

And  then,  forgetting  me  for  ever,  go 

And  gather  fragrant  kisses  for  the  boon, 

From  lips  that  do  not  know  their  privilege. 

I  could  be  nothing  but  the  medium 

Through  which  his  love  should  pass  to  reach  its  shrine  j 

The  glass  through  which  the  sun's  electric  beams 

Kindles  the  rose's  heart,  and  still  remains 

Chill  and  serene  itself — without  reward  ! 


BITTER-SWEET.  141 

Then  came  to  me  the  thought  of  my  great  wrong. 

A  man  had  spoiled  my  heart,  degraded  me  ; 

A  wanton  woman  had  defrauded  me  ; 

I  would  get  reparation  how  I  could  ! 

He  must  be  something  to  me — I  to  him  ! 

All  men,  however  good,  are  weak,  I  thought ; 

And  if  I  can  arrest  no  beam  of  love 

By  right  of  nature  or  by  leave  of  law, 

I'll  stain  the  glass  !     And  the  last  words  I  said, 

As  I  lay  down  upon  my  bed  to  dream, 

Were  those  four  words  of  sin  :  "  I'll  stain  the  glass  " 

GRACE. 

Mary,  I  cannot  hear  you  more  ;  your  tale, 
So  bitter  and  so  passing  pitiful 
I  have  forgotten  tears,  and  feel  my  eyes 
Burn  dry  and  hot  with  looking  at  your  face, 
Now  gathers  blackness,  and  grows  horrible. 


142  BITTER-SWEET. 

MAEY. 

Nay,  you  must  hear  me  out  ;  I  cannot  pause  ; 
And  have  no  worse  to  say  than  I  have  said — 
Thank  God,  and  him  who  put  away  my  toils  ! 

He  came,  and  came  again ;  and  every  charm 
God  had  bestowed  on  me,  or  art  could  frame, 
I  used  with  keenest  ingenuities 
To  fascinate  the  sensuous  element 
O'er  which,  mistrusted,  and  but  half  asleep, 
His  conscience  and  propriety  stood  guard. 
I  told  with  tears  the  story  of  my  woe  ; 
He  listened  to  me  with  a  thoughtful  face, 
And  sadly  sighed  ;  and  thus  I  won  his  ruth. 
And  then  I  told  him  how  my  life  was  lost  ; — 
How  earth  had  nothing  more  for  me  but  pain 
Not  e'en  a  friend.     At  this,  he  took  my  hand, 
And  said,  out  of  his  nobleness  of  heart, 
That  I  should  have  an  honest  friend  in  him  ; 
On  which  I  bowed  my  head  upon  his  arm, 


BITTER-SWEET.  143 

And  wept  again,  as  if  my  heart  would  break 

With  the  full  pressure  of  its  gratitude. 

He  pat  me  gently  off,  and  read  my  face  : 

I  stood  before  him  hopeless,  helpless,  his ! 

His  swift  soul  gathered  what  I  meant  it  should. 

lie  sighed  and  trembled  ;  then  he  crossed  the  floor, 

And  gazed  with  eye  abstracted  on  the  sky  ; 

Then  came  and  looked  at  me  ;  then  turned, 

As  if  affrighted  at  his  springing  thoughts, 

And,  with  abruptest  movement,  left  the  room. 

This  time  he  took  with  him  the  broidered  thing 

That  I  had  wrought  for  him  ;  and  when  I  oped 

The  little  purse  that  ho  rewarded  me, 

I  found  full  golden  payment  five  times  told. 

Given  from  pity  ?  thought  I, — that  alone  ? 

Is  manly  pity  so  munificent  ? 

Pity  has  mixtures  that  it  knows  not  of  I 

It  was  a  cruel  triumph,  and  I  speak 


144  BITTER-SWEET. 

Of  it  with  utter  penitence  and  shame. 

I  knew  that  he  would  come  again  ;  I  k'new 

His  feet  would  bring  him,  though  his  soul  rebelled  ; 

I  knew  that  cheated  heart  of  his  would  toy 

With  the  seductive  chains  that  gave  it  thrall, 

And  strive  to  reconcile  its  perjury 

With  its  own  conscience  of  the  better  way, 

By  fabrication  of  apologies 

It  knew  were  false. 

And  he  did  come  again; 
Confessing  a  strange  interest  in  me, 
And  doing  for  me  many  kindly  deeds. 
I  knew  the  nature  of  the  sympathy 
That  drew  him  to  my  side,  better  than  he  ; 
Though  I  could  see  that  solemn  change  in  hjm 
Which  every  face  will  wear,  when  Heaven  and  Hell 
Are  struggling  in  the  heart  for  mastery. 
He  was  unhappy  ;  every  sudden  sound 
Startled  his  apprehensions  ;  from  his  heart 


BITTER-SWEET,  145 

Rose  heavy  suspirations,  charged  with  prayer, 

Desire,  and  deprecation,  and  remorse ; — 

Sighs  like  volcanic  breathings — sighs  that  scorched 

His  parching  lips  and  spread  his  face  with  ashes, — 

Sighs  born  in  such  convulsions  of  the  soul 

That  his  strong  frame  quaked  like  Vesuvius, 

Burdened  with  restless  la-va. 

Day  by  day 

I  marked  this  dalliance  with  sinful  thought, 
Without  a  throb  of  pity  in  my  heart. 
I  took  his  gifts,  which  brought  immunity 
From  toil  and  care,  as  if  they  were  my  right. 
Day  after  day  I  saw  my  power  increase, 
Until  that  noble  spirit  was  a  slave — 
A  craven,  helpless,  self-suspected  slave. 

But  this  was  not  to  last — thank  God  and  him! 
One  night  he  came,  and  there  had  been  a  change. 
My  hand  was  kindly  taken,  but  not  held 


146  BITTEK-SWEET. 

In  the  way  wonted.     He  was  self-possessed ; 

The  powers  of  darkness  and  his  Christian  heart 

Had  had  a  struggle — his  the  victory ; 

And  on  his  manly  brow  the  benison 

Of  a  majestic  peace  had  been  imposed. 

Was  I  to  lose  the  guerdon  of  my  guile  ? 

He  was  my  all,  and  by  the  only  means 

Left  to  a  helpless,  reckless  thing,  like  me  : 

My  heart  made  pledge  the  strife  should  be  renewed. 

I  took  no  notice  of  his  altered  mood, 

But  strove,  by  all  the  tricks  of  tenderness, 

To  fan  to  life  again  the  drooping  flame 

Within  his  heart ; — with  what  success,  at  last, 

The  sequel  shall  reveal. 

Strange  fire  came  down 
Responsive  to  my  call,  and  the  quick  flash 
That  shrivelled  resolution,  vanquished  will, 
And  with  a  blood-red  flame  consumed  the  crown 
Of  peace  upon  his  brow,  taught  him  how  weak — 


BITTER-SWEET.  147 

How  miserably  imbecile — he  had  become, 

Tampering  with  temptation.     Such  a  groan, 

"Wrung  from  such  agony,  as  then  he  b  e^thed, 

Pray  Heaven  my  ears  may  never  hear  again  f 

Tie  smote  his  forehead  with  his  rigid  palm, 

And    sank,    as   if  the    blow    had   stunned   him,    to    his 

knees, 

And  there,  with  face  pressed  hard  upon  his  hands 
Gave  utterance  to  frenzied  sobs  and  prayers — 
The  wild  articulations  of  despair. 
I  was  confounded.     He — a  man — thought  I, 
Blind  with  remorse  by  simple  look  at  sin ! 
And  I — a  woman — in  the  devil's  hands, 
Luring  him  Hell  ward  with  no  blush  of  shame ! 
The    thought    came    swift   from    God,    and   pierced   mv 

heart, 

Like  a  barbed  arrow ;  and  it  quivered  there 
Through  whiles  of  tumult — quivered — and  was  fast  , 

while  I  stood  and  marked  his  kneeling  form, 


148  BITTER-SWEET. 

Still  shocked  by  deep  convulsions,  such  a  light 

Illumed  my  soul,  and  flooded  all  the  room, 

That,  without  thought,  I  said,  "The  Lord  is  here!" 

Then  straight  my  spirit  heard  these  wondrous  words : 

"  Tempted  in  all  points  like  ourselves,  was  He — 

Tempted,  but  sinless."     Oh,  what  majesty 

Of  meaning  did  those  precious  words  convey ! 

'Twas  through  temptation,  thought  I,   that  the  Lord- 

The  mediator  between  God  and  men — 

Reached  down  the  hand  of  sympathetic  love 

To  meet  the  grasp  of  lost  Humanity  ; 

And  this  man,  kneeling,  has  the  Lord  in  him, 

And  comes  to  mediate  'twixt  Christ  and  me, 

"  Tempted  but  sinless  ;" — one  hand  grasping  mine, 

The  other  Christ's. 

Why  had  he  suffered  thus? 
Why  had  his  heart  been  led  far  down  to  mine, 
To  beat  in  sinful  sympathy  with  mine, 
But  that  my  heart  should  cling  to  his  and  him, 


BITTER-SWEET.  149 

And  follow  his  withdrawal  to  the  heights 

From  whence  he  had  descended?     Then  I  learned 

"Why  Christ  was  tempted;  and,  as  broad  and  full, 

The  heart  of  the  great  secret  was  revealed, 

And  I  perceived  God's  dealings  with  my  soul, 

I  knelt  beside  the  tortured  man  and  wept, 

And  cried  to  Heaven  for  mercy.     As  I  prayed, 

My  soul  cast  off  its  shameful  enterprise ; 

And  when  it  fell,  I  saw  my  godless  self — 

My  own  degraded,  tainted,  guilty  heart, 

Which  it  had  hidden  from  me.     Oh,  the  pang— 

The  poignant  throe  of  uttermost  despair — 

That  followed  the  discovery !     I  felt 

That  I  was  lost  beyond  the  grace  of  God ; 

And  my  heart  turned  with  instinct  sure  and  swift 

To  the  strong  straggler,  praying  at  my  side, 

And  begged  his  succor  and  his  prayers.     I  felt 

That  he  must  lead  me  up  to  where  the  hand 

Of  Jesus  could  lay  hold  on  me,  or  I  was  doomed. 


150  BITTER-SWEET. 

Temptation's  spell  was  past.     He  took  my  hand, 

And,  as  he  prayed  that  we  might  be  forgiven, 

And  pledged  our  future  loyalty  to  God 

And  his  white  throne  within  our  hearts,  I  gave 

Responses  to  each  promise ;  then  I  crowned 

His  closing  utterance  with  such  Amen 

As  weak  hearts,  conscious  of  their  weakness,  give 

When,  bowed  to  dust,  and  clinging  to  the  robes 

Of  outraged  mercy,  they  devote  themselves 

Once  and  for  ever  to  the  pitying  Christ. 

Then  we  arose  and  stood  upon  our  feet. 

He  gave  me  no  reproaches,  but  with  voice 

Attempered  to  his  altered  mood,  confessed 

His  own  blameworthiness,  and  pressed  the  prayer 

That  I  would  pardon  him,  as  he  believed 

That  God  had  pardoned;   but  my  heart  was  full,- 

So  full  of  its  sore  sense  of  wrong  to  aim, 

Of  the  deep  guilt  of  shameful  purposes 

And  treachery  to  worthy  womanhood, 


BITTER-SWEET. 

That  I  could  not  repeat  his  Christian  words, 
A  si,  ing  forbearance  rn  my  own  behalf. 

lie  sat  before  me  for  a  golden  hour; 

And  gave  me  counsel  and  encouragement, 

Till,  like  broad  gates,  the  possibilities 

Of  a  serener  and  a  higher  life 

Were  thrown  wide  open  to  my  eager  feet, 

And  I  resolved  that  I  would  enter  in, 

And,  with  God's  gracious  help,  go  no  more  out. 

For  weeks  he  watched  me  witli  stern  carefulness, 
Nourished  my  resolution,  prayed  with  me, 
And  led  me,  step  by  step,  to  higher  ground, 
Till,  gathering  impulse  in  the  upward  walk, 
And  strength  in  purer  air,  and  keener  sight 
In  the  sweet  light  that  dawned  upon  my  soul, 
I  grasped  the  arm  of  Jesus,  and  was  safe. 
And  now,  when  I  look  back  upon  my  life, 
It  seems  as  if  that  noble  man  were  sent 


152  BITTER-SWEET. 

To  give  me  rescue  from  the  pit  of  death. 

But  from  his  distant  height  he  could  not  reach 

And  act  upon  my  soul;   so  Heaven  allowed 

Temptation's  ladder  'twixt  his  soul  and  mine 

That  they  might  meet  and  yield  his  mission  thrift. 

I  doubt  not  in  my  grateful  soul  to-night 

That  had  he  stayed  within  his  higher  world, 

And  tried  to  call  me  to  him,  I  had  spurned 

Alike  his  mission  and  his  ministry. 

That  he  was  tempted,  was  at  once  my  sin 

And  my  salvation.     That  he  sinned  in  thought, 

And  fiercely  wrestled  with  temptation,  won 

For  his  own  spirit  that  humility 

"Which  God  had  sought  to  clothe  him  with  in  vain, 

By  other  measures,  and  that  strength  which  springs 

From  a  great  conflict  and  a  victory. 

We  talked  of  this ;  and  on  our  bended  knees 

We  blessed  the  Great  Dispenser  for  the  means 

By  which  we  both  had  learned  our  sinful  selves, 

And  found  the  way  to  a  diviner  life. 


BITTER-SWEET.  153 

So,  with  my  chastened  heart  and  life,  I  come 
Back  to  my  home,  to  live — perhaps  to  die. 
God's  love  has  been  in  all  this  discipline; 
God's  love  has  used  those  awful  sins  of  mine 
To  make  me  good  and  happy.    I  can  mourn 
Over  my  husband;   I  can  pray  for  him, 
Nay,  I  forgive  him;   for  I  know  the  power 
With  which  temptation  comes  to  stronger  men. 
I  know  the  power  with  which  it  came  to  me. 

And  now,  dear  Grace,  my  story  is  complete. 
You  have  received  it  with  dumb  wonderment, 
And  it  has  been  too  long.    Tell  me  what  thought 
Stirs  in  your  face,  and  waits  for  utterance. 

GRACE. 

That  I  have  suffered  little — trusted  less; 
That  I  have  failed  in  charity,  and  been 
Unjust  to  all  men — specially  to  one. 

I  did  not  think  there  lived  a  man  on  earth 

7* 


154  BITTER-SWEET. 

Who  had  such  virtue  as  this  friend  of  yours, — 

Weak,  and  yet  strong.    'Twere  but  humanity 

To  give  him  pity  in  his  awful  strife; 

To  stint  the  meed  of  reverence  and  praise 

For  his  triumphant  conquest  of  himself, 

Were  infamy.     I  love  and  honor  him; 

And  if  I  knew  my  husband  were  as  strong, 

I  could  fall  down  before,  and  worship  him ; 

I  could  fall  down,  and  wet  his  feet  with  tears — 

Tears  penitential  for  the  grievous  wrong 

That  I  have  done  him.    But  alas !  alas ! 

The  thought  comes  back  again.     O  God  in  Heaven ! 

Help  me  with  patience  to  await  the  hour 

When  the  great  purpose  of  thy  discipline 

Shall  be  rev.aled,  and,  like  this  chastened  one, 

I  can  behold  it,  and  be  satisfied. 


MAKY. 


Hark!    They  are  calling  us  below,  I  think. 


BITTER-SWEET. 


155 


We  must  go  down.    "We'll  talk  of  this  again 
When  we  have  leisure.     Kiss  the  little  one, 
And  thank  his  weary  brain  it  sleeps  so  well. 

[They  descend. 


UHI7BRSITr 


SECOND   EPISODE. 


LOCALITY—  The  KitcJum. 
PRESENT— JOSEPH,  SAMUEL,  EEBBKAH,  and  other  CHILDREK. 


THE   QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  STORY. 
JOSEPH. 

Have  we  not  had  "  Button-Button  "  enough, 
And  "Forfeits,"  and  all  such  silly  stuff? 

SAMUEL. 

"Well,  we  were  playing  "  Blind-Man's-Buff " 
Until  you  fell,  and  rose  in  a  huff, 


158  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  declared  the  game  was  too  rude  and  rough. 
Poor  boy !     What  a  pity  he  isn't  tough  ! 

ALL. 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  what  a  pretty  boy! 
Papa's  delight,  and  mamma's  joy! 
Wouldn't  he  like  to  go  to  bed, 
And  have  a  cabbage-leaf  on  his  head? 

JOSEPH. 

Laugh,  if  you  like  to  !     Laugh  till  you're  gray ; 

But  I  guess  you'd  laugh  another  way 

If  you'd  hit  your  toe,  and  fallen  like  me, 

And  cut  a  bloody  gash  in  your  knee, 

And  bumped  your  nose  and  bruised  your  shin, 

Tumbling  over  the  rolling-pin 

That  rolled  to  the  floor  in  the  awful  din 

That  followed  the  fall  of  the  row  of  tin 

That  stood  upon  the  dresser. 


BITTEK-SWEET.  159 

SAMUEL. 

Guess  again — dear  little  guesser  ! 
You  wouldn't  catch  this  boy  lopping  his  wing, 
Or  whining  over  anything. 
So  stir  your  stumps, 
Forget  your  bumps, 
Get  out  of  your  dumps, 
And  up  and  at  it  again ; 
For  the  clock  is  striking  ten, 
And  Ruth  will  come  pretty  soon  and  say, 
"  Go  to  your  beds 

You  sleepy  heads  !" 
So — quick  !     What  shall  we  play  ? 

KEBEKAn. 

I  wouldn't  play  any  more, 
For  Joseph  is  tired  and  sore 
With  his  fall  upon  the  floor. 


160  BITTER-SWEET. 


Then  he  shall  tell  a  story. 

JOSEPH. 
About  old  Mother  Morey  ? 


No  !    Tell  us  another. 

JOSEPH. 
About  my  brother  ? 

KEBEKAH. 

Now,  Joseph,  you  shall  be  good, 

And  do  as  you'd  be  done  by ; 

We  didn't  mean  to  be  rude 

When  you  fell  and  began  to  cry; 

We  wanted  to  make  you  forget  your  pain; 

But  it  frets  you,  and  we'll  not  laugh  again. 


BITTER-SWEET.  161 


JOSEPH. 


Well,  if  you'll  all  sit  still, 
And  not  be  frisking  about, 
Nor  utter  a  whisper  till 
You've  heard  my  story  out, 
I'll  tell  you  a  tale  as  weird 
As  ever  you  heard  in  your  lives, 
Of  a  man  with  a  long  blue  beard, 
And  the  way  he  treated  his  wives. 

ATT.. 

Oh,  that  will  be  nice  ! 
We'll  be  still  as  mice. 

JOSEPH. 

[Relates  the  old  story  of  Blue  Beard,  and  DAVCD  and  RUTH  ente* 
from  the  cellar  unperceived. 

Centuries  since  there  flourished  a  man, 
(A  cruel  old  Tartar  as  rich  as  the  Khan,) 


162  BITTEK-SWEET. 

Whose  castle  was  built  on  a  splendid  plan, 

With  gardens  and  groves  and  plantations; 
But  his  shaggy  beard  was  as  blue  as  the  sky, 
And  he  lived  alone,  for  his  neighbors  were  shy, 
And  had  heard  hard  stories,  by  the  by, 
About  his  domestic  relations. 

Just  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  plain 

A  widow  abode,  with  her  daughters  twain ; 

And  one  of  them — neither  cross  nor  vain — 

Was  a  beautiful  little  treasure; 
So  he  sent  them  an  invitation  to  tea, 
And  having  a  natural  wish  to  see 
His  wonderful  castle  and  gardens,  all  three 

Said  they'd  do  themselves  the  pleasure. 

- 

As  soon  as  there  happened  a  pleasant  day, 
They  dressed  themselves  in  a  sumptuous  way, 
And  rode  to  the  castle  as  proud  and  gay 
As  silks  and  jewels  could  make  them; 


BITTER-SWEET.  163 

And  they  were  received  in  the  finest  style, 
And  saw  everything  that  was  worth  their  while, 
In  the  halls  of  Blue  Beard's  grand  old  pile, 
W  here  he  was  so  kind  as  to  take  them. 

The  ladies  were  all  enchanted  quite ; 
For  they  found  old  Blue  Beard  so  polite 
That  they  did  not  suffer  at  all  from  fright, 

And  frequently  called  thereafter  ; 
Then  he  offered  to  marry  the  younger  one, 
And  as  she  was  willing  the  thing  was  done, 
And  celebrated  by  all  the  ton 

With  feasting  and  with  laughter. 

As  kind  a  husband  as  ever  was  seen 

Was  Blue  Beard  then,  for  a  month,  I  ween; 

And  she  was  as  proud  as  any  queen, 

And  as  happy  as  she  could  be,  too ; 
But  her  husband  called  her  to  him  one  day, 
And  said,  "My  dear,  I  am  going  away; 


164  BITTER-SWEET. 

It  will  not  be  long  that  I  shall  stay; 
There  is  business  for  me  to  see  to. 

"  The  keys  of  my  castle  I  leave  with  you ; 

But  if  you  value  my  love,  be  true, 

And  forbear  to  enter  the  Chamber  of  Blue  I 

Farewell,  Fatima  !     Remember  !" 
Fatima  promised  him;    then  she  ran 
To  visit  the  rooms  with  her  sister  Ann ; 
But  when  she  had  finished  the  tour,  she  began 

To  think  about  the  Blue  Chamber. 

Well,  the  woman  was  curiously  inclined, 
So  she  left  her  sister  and  prudence  behind, 
(With  a  little  excuse)  and  started  to  find 

The  mystery  forbidden. 

She  paused  at  the  door ; — ah1  was  still  as  night  I 
She  opened  it :    then  through  the  dim,  blue  light 
There  blistered  her  vision  the  horrible  sight 

That  was  in  that  chamber  hidden. 


BITTER-SWEET.  16J 

The  room  was  gloomy  and  damp  and  wide, 
And  the  floor  was  red  with  the  bloody  tide 
From  headless  women,  laid  side  by  side, 

The  wives  of  her  lord  and  master  ! 
Frightened  and  fainting,  she  dropped  the  key, 
But  seized  it  and  lifted  it  quickly;    then  she 
Hurried  as  swiftly  as  she  could  flee 

From  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 

She  tried  to  forget  the  terrible  dead, 

But  shrieked  when  she  saw  that  the  key  was  red, 

And  sickened  and  shook  with  an  awful  dread 

When  she  heard  Blue  Beard  was  coming. 
He  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  pain; 
But  he  took  his  keys,  and  seeing  the  stain, 
He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  refrain 

That  he  had  been  quietly  humming. 

"  Mighty  well,  madam  !"    said  he,  "  mighty  well ! 
What  does  this  little  blood-stain  tell  ? 


166  BITTER-SWEET. 

You've  broken  your  promise  ;  prepare  to  dwell 
With  the  wives  I've  had  before  you  ! 

You've  broken  your  promise,  and  you  shall  die." 

Then  Fatima,  supposing  her  death  was  nigh, 

Fell  on  her  knees  and  began  to  cry, 
"  Have  mercy,  I  implore  you  !" 

44  No  I"    shouted  Blue  Beard,  drawing  his  sword  ; 
"  You  shall  die  this  very  minute,"  he  roared. 
"  Grant  me  time  to  prepare  to  meet  my  Lord," 

The  terrified  woman  entreated. 
"  Only  ten  minutes,"  he  roared  again ; 
And  holding  his  watch  by  its  great  gold  chain, 
He  marked  on  the  dial  the  fatal  ten, 

And  retired  till  they  were  completed. 

"  Sister,  oh,    sister,  fly  up  to  the  tower  ! 
Look  for  release  from  this  murderer's  power  ! 
Our  brothers  should  be  here  this  very  hour; — 
Speak  !     Does  there  come  assistance  ?" 


BITTER-SWEET.  167 

"No:    I  see  nothing  but  sheep  on  the  hill." 
"  Look  again,  sister  !"     "  I'm  looking  still, 
But  naught  can  I  see,  whether  good  or  ill, 
Save  a  flurry  of  dust  in  the  distance." 

"  Time's  up  !"    shouted  Blue  Beard,  out  from  his  room ; 
**  This  moment  shall  witness  your  terrible  doom, 
And  give  you  a  dwelling  within  the  room 

Whose  secrets  you  have  invaded." 
"  Comes  there  no  help  for  my  terrible  need  ?" 
"  There  are  horsemen  twain  riding  hither  with  speed." 
"  Oh  !   tell  them  to  ride  very  fast  indeed, 

Or  I  must  meet  death  unaided." 

"  Time's  fully  up !     Now  have  done  with  your  prayer," 
Shoute  1  Blue  Beard,  swinging  his  sword  on  the  stair ; 
Then  he  entered,  and  grasping  her  beautiful  hair, 

Swung  his  glittering  weapon  around  him ; 
But  a  loud  knock  rang  at  the  castle  gate, 
And  Fatima  wns  saved  from  her  horrible  fate, 


168  BITTER-SWEET. 

For,  shocked  with  surprise,  he  paused  too  late; 
And  then  the  two  soldiers  found  him. 

They  were  her  brothers,  and  quick  as  they  knew 
What  the  fiend  was  doing,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  attacked  him  fiercely,  and  ran  him  through, 

So  that  soon  he  was  mortally  wounded. 
With  a  wild  remorse  was  his  conscience  filled 
When  he  thought  of  the  hapless  wives  he  had  killed; 
But  quickly  the  last  of  his  blood  was  spilled, 

And  his  dying  groan  was  sounded. 

As  soon  as  Fatima  recovered  from  fright, 
She  embraced  her  brothers  with  great  delight; 
And  they  were  as  glad  and  as  grateful  quite 

As  she  was  glad  and  grateful. 
Then  they  all  went  out  from  that  scene  of  pain, 
And  sought  in  quietude  to  regain 
Their  minds,  which  had  come  to  be  quite  insane, 

In  a  place  so  horrid  and  hateful. 


BITTER-SWEET.  169 

'TVas  a  private  funeral  Blue  Beard  Lad; 

For  the  people  knew  he  was  very  bad, 

And,  though  they  said  nothing,  they  all  were  glad 

For  the  fall  of  the  evil-doer  ; 

But  Fatima  first  ordered  some  graves  to  be  made, 
And  there  the  unfortunate  ladies  were  laid, 
And  after  some  painful  months,  with  the  aid 

Of  her  friends,  her  spirits  came  to  her. 

Then  she  cheered  the  hearts  of  the  suffering  poor, 
And  an  acre  of  land  around  each  door 
And  a  cow  and  a  couple  of  sheep,  or  more, 

To  her  tenantry  she  granted. 
So  all  of  them  had  enough  to  eat, 
And  their  love  for  her  was  so  complete 
They  would  kiss  the  dust  from  her  little  feet, 

Or  do  anything  she  wanted. 

SAMUEL. 

Capital !     Capital !     Wasn't  it  good  ! 

8 


170  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  should  like  to  have  been  her  brother; 

If  I  had  been  one,  you  may  guess  there  would 

Have  been  little  work  for  the  other. 

I'd  have  run  him  right  through  the  heart,  just  so 

And  cut  off  his  head  at  a  single  blow, 

And  killed  him  so  quickly  he'd  never  know 

What  it  was  that  struck  him,  wouldn't  I,  Joe? 

JOSEPH. 

You  are  very  brave  with  your  bragging  tongue; 
But  if  you  had  been  there,  you'd  have  sung 

A  very  different  tune. 

Poor  Blue  Beard!     He  would  have  been  afraid 
Of  a  little  boy  with  a  penknife  blade, 

Or  a  tiny  pewter  spoon ! 

SAMUEL. 

It  makes  no  difference  what  you  say 
(Pretty  little  "boy,  afraid  to  play!) 


BITTER-SWEET.  171 

But  it  served  him  rightly  any  way, 

And  gave  him  just  his  due. 
And  wasn't  it  good  that  his  little  wife 
Should  live  in  his  castle  the  rest  of  her  life, 

And  have  all  his  money  too  ? 


REBEKAH. 

I'm  thinking  of  the  ladies  who 
Were  lying  in  the  Chamber  Blue, 
With  all  their  small  necks  cut  in  two. 

I  see  them  lying,  half  a  score, 
In  a  long  row  upon  the  floor, 
Their  cold,  white  bosoms  marked  with  gore. 

I  know  the  sweet  Fatima  would 
Have  put  their  heads  on  if  she  could; 
And  made  them  live — she  was  so  good  ; 


172  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  washed  their  faces  at  the  sink; 
But  Blue  Beard  was  not  sane,  I  think: 
I  wonder  if  he  did  not  drink! 

For  no  man  in  his  proper  mind 
Would  be  so  cruelly  inclined 
As  to  kill  ladies  who  were  kind. 

RUTH. 

[Stepping  forward  with  DAVH 
Story  and  comment  alike  are  bad ; 
These  little  fellows  are  raving  mad 

With  thinking  what  they  should  do, 
Supposing  their  sunny-eyed  sister  had 
Given  her  heart — and  her  head — to  a  lad 
Like  the  man  with  the  Beard  of  Blue. 
Each  little  jacket 
Is  now  a  packet 

Of  murderous  thoughts  and  fancies; 
Oh,  the  gentle  trade 
By  which  fiends  are  made 


BITTER-SWEET.  173 

With  the  ready  aid 

Of  these  bloody  old  romances ! 
And  the  little  girl  takes  the  woman's  turn, 
And  thinks  that  the  old  curmudgeon 
Who  owned  a  castle,  and  rolled  in  gold 
Over  fields  and  gardens  manifold, 
And  kept  in  his  house  a  family  tomb, 
With  his  bowling  course  and  his  billiard-room, 
Where  he  could  preserve  his  precious  dead, 
Who  took  the  kiss  of  the  bridal  bed 
From  one  who  straightway  took  their  head, 
And  threw  it  away  with  the  pair  of  gloves 
In  which  he  wedded  his  hapless  loves, 

Had  some  excuse  for  his  dudgeon. 

DAYID. 

We  learn  by  contrast  to  admire 
The  beauty  that  enchains  us ; 
And  know  the  object  of  desire 
By  that  which  pains  us. 


174  BITTER-SWEET. 

The  roses  blushing  at  the  door, 

The  lapse  of  leafy  June, 
The  singing  birds,  the  sunny  shore, 
The  summer  moon  ; — 

All  these  entrance  the  eye  or  ear 

By  innate  grace  and  charm ; 
But  o'er  them,  reaching  through  the  year 
Hangs  Winter's  arm, 

To  give  to  memory  the  sign, 

The  index  of  our  bliss, 
And  show  by  contrast  how  divine 
The  Summer  is. 

From  chilling  blasts  and  stormy  skies, 

Bare  hills  and  icy  streams, 
Touched  into  fairest  life  arise 
Our  summer  dreams. 


BITTER-SWEET.  175 

And  virtue  never  seems  so  fair 

As  when  we  lift  our  gaze 
From  the  red  eyes  and  bloody  hair 
That  vice  displays. 

We  are  too  low, — our  eyes  too  dark 

Love's  height  to  estimate, 
Save  as  we  note  the  sunken  mark 
Of  brutal  Hate. 

So  this  ensanguined  tale  shall  move 

Aright  each  little  dreamer, 
And  Blue  Beard  teach  them  how  to  love 
The  sweet  Fatima. 

They  hate  his  crimes,  and  it  is  well; 

They  pity  those  who  died ; 
Their  sense  of  justice  \\hen  he  fell 
AVns  satisfied. 


176  BITTER-SWEET. 

No  fierce  revenges  are  the  fruit 

Of  their  just  indignation  ; 
They  sit  in  judgment  on  the  brute, 
And  condemnation  ; 

And  turn  to  her,  his  rescued  wife, 

Her  deeds  so  kind  and  human, 
And  love  the  beauty  of  her  life, 
And  bless  the  woman. 

RUTH. 

That  is  the  way  I  supposed  you  would  twist  it; 
And  now  that  the  boys  are  disposed  of, 
And  the  moral  so  handsomely  closed  off, 
What  do  you  say  of  the  girl?     That  she  missed  it, 
When   she   thought   of  old  Blue  Beard  as  some  do  of 

Judas, 

Who  with  this  notion  essay  to  delude  us: 
That  when  he  relented, 
And  fiercely  repented, 


BITTER-SWEET.  177 

He  was  hardly  so  bad 
As  he  commonly  had 
The  fortune  to  be  represented? 

DAVID. 

The  noblest  pity  in  the  earth 

Is  that  bestowed  on  sin. 
The  Great  Salvation  had  its  birth 
That  ruth  within. 

The  girl  is  nearest  God,  in  fact; 

The  boy  gives  crime  its  due; 
She  blames  the  author  of  the  act, 
And  pities  too. 

Thus,  from  this  strange  excess  of  wrong, 

Her  tender  heart  has  caught 
The  noblest  truth,  the  sweetest  song, 

The  Saviour  taught. 

8* 


178  BITTER-SWEET. 

So,  more  than  measured  homily, 

Of  sage,  or  priest,  or  preacher, 
Is  this  wild  tale  of  cruelty 

Love's  gentle  teacher. 

It  tells  of  sin,  its  deep  remorse, 

Its  fitting  recompense, 
And  vindicates  the  tardy  course 
Of  Providence. 

These  boyish  bosoms  are  on  fire 

With  chivalric  possession, 
And  burn  with  just  and  manly  ire 
Against  oppression. 

The  glory  and  the  grace  of  life, 

And  Love's  surpassing  sweetness, 

"Rise  from  the  monster  to  the  wife 

In  high  completeness ; 


BITTER-SWEET.  179 

And  thence  look  down  with  mercy's  eye 

On  sin's  accurst  abuses, 
And  seek  to  wrest  from  charity 
Some  fair  excuses. 

EUTH. 

These  greedy  mouths  are  watering 
For  the  fruit  within  the  basket; 
And,  although  they  will  not  ask  it, 
Their  jack-knives  all  are  burning 
And  their  eager  hands  are  yearning 

For  the  peeling  and  the  quartering. 
So  let  us  have  done  with  our  talk; 
For  they  are  too  tired  to  say  their  prayers, 
And  the  time  is  come  they  should  walk 
From  the  story  below  to  the  story  up  stairs. 


THIRD    MOVEMENT. 


DRAMATIC. 


THE    THIRD    MOVEMENT. 


LOCALITY—  The,  Kitchen. 
PRESENT— DAVID,  EUTH,  JOHN,  PETEB,  PRUDENCE,  and  PATIENOT. 


THE   QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED  BY  THE  DENOUEMENT. 
JOHN. 

Since  the  old  gentleman  retired  to  bed, 

Things  have  gone  strangely.    David,  here,  and  Ruth, 

Have  wasted  thirty  minutes  underground 

In  explorations.     One  would  think  the  house 

Covered  the  entrance  of  the  Mammoth  Cave, 

And  they  had  lost  themselves.    Mary  and  Grace 


184  BITTER-SWEET. 

Still  hold  their  chamber  and  their  conference, 

And  pour  into  each  other's  greedy  ears 

Their  stream  of  talk,  whose  low,  monotonous  hum, 

Would  lull  to  slumber  any  storm  but  this. 

The  children  are  play-tired  and  gone  to  bed; 

And  one  may  know  by  looking  round  the  room 

Their  place  of  sport  was  here.    And  we,  plain  folk, 

Who  have  no  gift  of  speech,  especially 

On  themes  which  we  and  none  may  understand, 

Have  yawned  and  nodded  in  the  great  square  room, 

And  wondered  if  the  parted  family 

Would  ever  meet  again. 

EUTH. 

John,  do  you  see 

The  apples  and  the  cider  on  the  hearth? 
If  I  remember  rightly,  you  discuss 
Such  themes  as  these  with  noticeable  zest 
And  pleasant  tokens  of  intelligence; 


BITTER-SWEET.  185 


Rather  preferring  scanty  company 

To  the  full  circle.     So,  sir,  take  the  lead, 

And  help  yourself. 

JOHN. 

Aye!    That  I  will,  and  give 
Your  welcome  invitation  currency, 
In  the  old-fashioned  way.     Come!     Help  yourselves! 

DAVID. 

[Looking  out  from  the  window 

The  ground  is  thick  with  sleet,  and  still  it  falls  I 
The  atmosphere  is  plunging  like  the  sea 
Against  the  woods,  and  pouring  on  the  night 
The  roar  of  breakers,  while  the  blinding  spray 
O'erleaps  the  barrier,  and  comes  drifting  on 
In  lines  as  level  as  the  window-bars. 
What  curious  visions,  in  a  night  like  this, 
Will  the  eye  conjure  from  the  rocks  and  trees, 
And  zigzag  fences!     I  was  almost  sure 


186  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  saw  a  man  staggering  along  the  road 
A  moment  since;   but  instantly  the  shape 
Dropped  from  my  sight.    Hark!   Was  not  that  a  ^ 
A  human  voice?    There's  a  conspiracy 
Between  my  eyes  and  ears  to  play  me  tricks, 
Else  wanders  there  abroad  some  hapless  soul 
Who  needs  assistance.    There  he  stands  again, 
And  with  unsteady  essay  strives  to  breast 
The  tempest.    Hush!   Did  you  not  hear  that  cry? 
Quick,  brothers!   We  must  out,  and  give  our  aid. 
None  but  a  dying  and  despairing  man 
Ever  gave  utterance  to  a  cry  like  that. 
Nay,  wait  for  nothing.    Follow  me  1 


BUTH. 

Alas! 

Who  can  he  be,  who  on  a  night  like  this, 
And  on  this  night,  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Holds  to  the  highway,  homeless? 


BITTER-SWEET.  187 

PRUDENCE. 

Probably 

Some  neighbor,  started  from  his  home  in  quest 
Of  a  physician ;   or,  more  likely  still, 
Some  poor  inebriate,  sadly  overcome 
By  his  sad  keeping  of  the  holiday. 
I  hope  they'll  give  him  quarters  in  the  barn ; 
If  he  sleep  here,  there'll  be  no  sleep  for  me. 

PATIENCE. 

I'll  not  believe  it  was  a  man  at  all ; 
David  and  Ruth  are  always  seeing  things 
That  no  one  else  sees. 

RTJTH. 

I  see  plainly  now 

\Yliat  we  shall  all  see  plainly,  soon  enough. 
The  man  is  dead,  and  they  are  bearing  him 
As  if  he  were  a  log.  Quick !  Stir  the  fire, 


188  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  clear  the  settle!    We  must  lay  him  there. 

I  will  bring  cordials,  and  flannel  stuffs 

With  which  to  chafe  him ;   open  wide  the  door. 

[The  men  enter,  bearing  a  body  apparently  lifeless,  which  they  lay 
upon  the  settk. 

DAVID. 

Now  do  my  bidding,  orderly  and  swift; 

And  we  may  save  from  death  a  fellow  man. 

Peter,  relieve  him  of  those  frozen  shoes, 

And  wrap  his  feet  in  flannel.    This  way,  Ruth! 

Administer  that  cordial  yourself. 

John,  you  are  strong,  and  that  rough  hand  of  yours 

Will  chafe  him  well.    Work  with  a  will,  I  say! 
******* 

My  hand  is  on  his  heart,  and  I  can  feel 
Both  warmth  and  motion.    If  we  persevere, 

He  will  be  saved.    Work  with  a  will,  I  say! 

******* 
A  groan  ?    Ha !     That  is  good.    Another  groan  ? 
Better  and  better! 


BITTEK-SWEET.  189 

KUTH. 

It  is  down  at  last! — 
A  spoonful  of  the  cordial.    His  breath 
Comes  feebly,  but  is  warm  upon  my  hand. 

DAVID. 

Give  him  brisk  treatment,  and  persistent,  too ; 
And  we  shall  be  rewarded  presently, 

For  there  is  life  in  him. 

******* 

He  moves  his  lips 

And  tries  to  speak. 

******* 

And  now  he  opes  his  eyes. 
(VTiat  eyes!     How  wandering  and  wild  they  are! 

[To  the  stranger. 

We  are  your  friends.    We  found  you  overcome 
By  the  cold  storm  without,  and  brought  you  in. 
We  are  your  friends,  I  say;   so  be  at  ease, 


190  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  let  us  do  according  to  your  need. 
What  is  your  wish? 

STRANGER. 

My  friends?     O  God  in  Heaven! 
They've  cheated  me!     I'm  in  the  hospital. 
Oh,  it  was  cruel  to  deceive  me  thus! 
]STo,  you  are  not  my  friends.     What  bitter  pain 
Racks  my  poor  body! 

DAVID. 

Poor  man,  how  he  raves! 
Let  us  be  silent  while  the  warmth  and  wine 
Provoke  his  sluggish  blood  to  steady  flow, 
And  each  dead  sense  comes  back  to  life  again, 
O'er  the  same  path  of  torture  which  it  trod 
When  it  went  out  from  him.     He'll  slumber  soon, 
And,  when  he  wakens,  we  may  talk  with  him. 


BITTER-SWEET.  191 

PRUDENCE 

[Sotto  voce. 

Shall  I  not  call  the  family?     I  think 
Mary  and  Grace  must  both  be  very  cold; 
And  they  know  nothing  of  this  strange  affair. 
I'll  wait  them  at  the  landing,  and  secure 
Their  silent  entrance. 

DAVID. 

If  it  please  you — well. 
[PRUDENCE  retires,  and  returns  with  GRACE  and  MARY 

MARY. 

Why  !     "We  heard  nothing  of  it — Grace  and  I : — 
"What  a  cadaverous  hand  !     How  blue  and  thin  ! 

DAVID. 

At  his  first  wild  awaking  he  bemoaned 
His  fancied  durance  in  a  hospital ; 


192  BITTEE-SWEET. 

And  since  he  spoke  so  strangely,  I  have  thought 
He  may  have  fled  a  mad-house.     Matters  not  ! 
We've  done  our  duty,  and  preserved  his  life. 

MARY. 

Shall  I  disturb  him  if  I  look  at  him  ? 
I'm  strangely  curious  to  see  his  face. 

DAVID. 

Go.    Move  you  carefully,  and  bring  us  word 
Whether  he  sleeps. 

[MARY  rises,  goes  to  the  settle,  and  sinks  back  fainting, 

Why !     What  ails  the  girl  ? 

I  thought  her  nerves  were  iron.    Dash  her  brow, 
And  bathe  her  temples  ! 

MARY. 

There — there, — that  will  do. 
»Tis  over  now. 


BITTER-SWEET.  193 

DAVID. 

The  man  is  speaking.     Hush  ! 

STRANGER. 

Oh,  what  a  heavenly  dream  !     But  it  is  past, 
Like  all  my  heavenly  dreams,  for  never  more 
Shall  dream  entrance  me.    Death  has  never  dreams, 
But  everlasting  wakefulness.     The  eye 
Of  the  quick  spirit  that  has  dropped  the  flesh 

May  close  no  more  in  slumber. 

******* 

I  must  die  ! 

This  painless  spell  which  binds  my  weary  limbs — 
This  peace  ineffable  of  soul  and  sense — 
Is  dissolution's  herald,  and  gives  note 
That  life  is  conquered  and  the  struggle  o'er. 
But  I  had  hoped  to  see  her  ere  I  died  ; 
To  kneel  for  pardon,  and  implore  one  kiss, 
Pledge  to  my  soul  that  in  the  coming  heaven 

We  should  not  meet  as  strangers,  but  rejoin 

0 


194  BITTER-SWEET. 

Our  hearts  and  lives  so  madly  sundered  here, 
Through  fault  and  freak  of  mine.     But  it  is  well  1 
God's  will  be  done  ! 

*  ****** 

I  dreamed  that  I  had  reached 
The  old  red  farm-house, — that  I  saw  the  light 
Flaming  as  brightly  as  in  other  times 
It  flushed  the  kitchen  windows  ;  and  that  forms 
Were  sliding  to  and  fro  in  joyous  life, 
Restless  to  give  me  welcome.     Then  I  dreamed 
Of  the  dear  woman  who  went  out  with  me 
One  sweet  spring  morning,  in  her  own  sweet  spring, 

To wretchedness  and  ruin.     Oh,  forgive — 

Dear,  pitying  Christ,  forgive  this  cruel  wrong, 
And  let  me  die  !     Oh,  let  me — let  me  die  ! 
Mary  !  my  Mary  !     Could  you  only  know 
How  I  have  suffered  since  I  fled  from  you, — 
How  I.  have  sorrowed  through  long  months  of  pain, 
And  prayed  for  pardon, — you  would  pardon  me. 


BITTER-SWEET.  195 

DAVID. 

[Sotto  isce. 

Mary,  what  means  this  ?    Does  he  dream  alone, 
Or  are  we  dreaming  ? 

MARY. 

Edward,  I  am  here  ! 

I  am  your  Mary  !     Know  you  not  my  face  ? 
My  husband,  speak  to  me  !     Oh,  speak  once  more  ! 
This  is  no  dream,  but  kind  reality. 

EDWARD. 

[liaising  himself,  and  looking  wildly  around. 

You,  Mary  ?    Is  this  heaven,  and  am  I  dead  ? 
I  did  not  know  you  died  :  when  did  you  die  ? 
And  John  and  Peter,  Grace  and  little  Ruth 
Grown  to  a  woman  ;  are  they  all  with  you  ? 
»Tis  very  strange  !     O  pity  me,  my  friends  ! 
For  God  has  pitied  me,  and  pardoned,  too  ; 


196  BITTER-SWEET. 

Else  I  should  not  be  here.     Nay,  you  seem  cold, 

And  look  on  me  with  sad  severity. 

Have  you  no  pardoning  word — no  smile  for  me  ? 

MARY. 

This  is  not  Heaven's  but  Earth's  reality; 

This  is  the  farm-house — these  your  wife  and  friends. 

I  hold  your  hand,  and  I  forgive  you  all. 

Pray  you  recline  !     You  are  not  strong  enough 

To  bear  this  yet. 

EDWARD. 

[Sinking  back. 

O  toiling  heart  !  O  sick  and  sinking  heart ! 

Give  me  one  hour  of  service,  ere  I  die  ! 

This  is  no  dream.     This  hand  is  precious  flesh, 

And  I  am  here  where  I  have  prayed  to  be. 

My  God,  I  thank  thee  !     Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer, 

And,  in  its  answer,  given  me  a  pledge 

Of  the  acceptance  of  my  penitence. 


BITTER-SWEET.  197 

How  have  I  yearned  for  this  one  priceless  hour! 
Cling  to  me,  dearest,  while  my  feet  go  down 
Into  the  silent  stream;  nor  loose  your  hold, 
Till  angels  grasp  me  on  the  other  side. 

MARY. 

Edward,  you  are  not  dying — must  not  die; 
For  only  now  are  we  prepared  to  live. 
You  must  have  quiet,  and  a  night  of  rest. 
Be  silent,  if  you  love  me ! 

EDWAED. 

If  I  love? 

Ah,  Mary!  never  till  this  blessed  hour, 
When  power  and  passion,  lust  and  pride  are  gone, 
Have  I  perceived  what  wedded  love  may  be; — 
Unutterable  fondness,  soul  for  soul; 
Profoundest  tenderness  between  two  hearts 
Allied  by  nature,  interlocked  by  life. 


198  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  know  that  I  shall  die;  but  the  low  clouds 
That  closed  my  mental  vision  have  retired, 
And  left  a  sky  as  clear  and  calm  as  Heaven. 
I  must  talk  now,  or  never  more  on  earth; 
So  do  not  hinder  me. 

MARY. 

[  Weeping. 

Have  you  a  wish 

That  I  can  gratify?    Have  you  any  words 
To  send  to  other  friends? 

EDWARD. 

I  have  no  friends 

But  you  and  these,  and  only  wish  to  leave 
My  worthless  name  and  memory  redeemed 
Within  your  hearts  to  pitying  respect. 
I  have  no  strength,  and  it  becomes  me  not, 
To  tell  the  story  of  my  life  of  sin. 
I  was  a  drunkard,  thief,  adulterer; 


BITTER-SWEET.  199 

And  lied  from  shame,  with  shame,  to  find  remorse. 

I  had  but  few  mouths  of  debauchery, 

Pursued  with  mad  intent  to  damp  or  drown 

The  flames  of  a  consuming  conscience,  when 

My  body,  poisoned,  crippled  with  disease, 

Refused  the  guilty  service  of  my  soul, 

And  at  mid-day  fell  prone  upon  the  street. 

Thence  I  was  carried  to  a  hospital, 

And  there  I  woke  to  that  delirium 

Which  none  but  drunkards  this  side  of  the  pit 

May  even  dream  of. 

But  at  last  there  came, 
With  abstinence  and  kindly  medicines, 
Release  from  pain  and  peaceful  sanity; 
And  then  Christ  found  me,  ready  for  His  hand. 
I  was  not  ready  for  Him  when  He  came 
And  asked  me  for  my  youth;  and  when  He  knocked 
At  my  heart's  door  in  manhood's  early  prime 
With  tenderest  monitions,  I  debarred 


200  BITTEE-SWEET. 

His  waiting  feet  with  promise  and  excuse; 

And  when,  in  after  years,  absorbed  in  sin, 

The  gentle  summons  swelled  to  thunderings 

That  echoed  through  the  chambers  of  my  soul 

With  threats  of  vengeance,  I  shut  up  my  ears ; 

And  then  He  went  away,  and  let  me  rush 

"Without  arrest,  or  protest,  toward  the  pit. 

I  made  swift  passage  downward,  till,  at  length, 

I  had  become  a  miserable  wreck — 

Pleasure  behind  me;  only  pain  before; 

My  life  lived  out ;  the  fires  of  passion  dead ; 

Without  a  friend ;  no  pride,  no  power,  no  hope ; 

No  motive  in  me  e'en  to  wish  for  life. 

Then,  as  I  said,  Christ  came,  with  stern  and  sad 

Reminders  of  His  mercy  and  my  guilt, 

And  the  door  fell  before  Him. 

I  went  out, 

And  trod  the  wildernesses  of  remorse 
For  many  days.     Then  from  their  outer  verge, 


BITTER-SWEET,  201 

Tortured  and  blinded,  I  plunged  madly  down 
Into  the  sullen  bosom  of  despair; 

But    strength   from    Heaven    was   given    me,   and    pre 
served 

Breath  hi  my  bosom,  till  a  light  streamed  up 
Upon  the  other  shore,  and  I  struck  out 
On  the  cold  waters,  struggling  for  my  life. 
Fainting  I  reached  the  beach,  and  on  my  knees 
Climbed  up  the  thorny  hill  of  penitence, 
Till  I  could  see,  upon  its  distant  brow, 
The  Saviour  beck'ning.     Then  I  ran — I  flew — 
And  grasped  his  outstretched  hand.     It  lifted  me 
High  on  the  everlasting  rock,  and  then 
It  folded  me,  with  all  my  griefs  and  tears, 
My  sin-sick  body  and  my  guilt-stained  soul, 
To  the  great  heart  that  throbs  for  all  the  world. 

MAKY. 


Dear  Lord,  I  bless  thee!     Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer, 

9* 


202  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  saved  the  wanderer!    Hear  it  once  again, 
And  lengthen  out  the  life  thou  hast  redeemed! 

EDWARD. 

Mary,  my  wife,  forbear!     I  may  not  give 

Response  to  such  petition.    I  have  prayed 

That  I  may  die.     When  first  the  love  Divine 

Received  me  on  its  bosom,  and  in  mine 

I  felt  the  springing  of  another  life, 

I  begged  the  Lord  to  grant  me  two  requests : 

The  first  that  I  might  die,  and  in  that  world 

"Where  passion  sleeps,  and  only  influence 

From  Him  and  those  who  cluster  at  His  throne 

Breathes  on  the  soul,  the  germ  of  His  great  life, 

Bursting  within  me,  might  be  perfected. 

The  second,  that  your  life,  my  love,  and  mine 

Might  be  once  more  united  on  the  earth 

In  holy  marriage,  and  that  mine  might  be 

Breathed  out  at  last  within  your  loving  arms. 


BITTEB-SWEET.  203 

One  prayer  is  granted,  and  the  other  waits 
But  a  brief  space  for  its  accomplishment. 

MARY. 

But  why  this  prayer  to  die?     Still  loving  me, — 
With  the  great  motive  for  desiring  life 
And  the  deep  secret  of  enjoyment  won, — 
Why  pray  for  death? 

EDWARD. 

Do  you  not  know  me,  Mary? 
I  am  afraid  to  live,  for  I  am  weak. 
I've  found  a  treasure  only  life  can  steal ; 
I've  won  a  jewel  only  death  will  keep. 
In  such  a  heart  as  mine,  the  priceless  pearl 
Would  not  be  safe.    That  which  I  would  not  take 
When  health  was  with  me, — which  I  spurned  away 
So  long  as  I  had  power  to  sin,  I  fear 
Would  be  surrendered  with  that  power's  return 
And  the  temptation  to  its  exercise. 
For  soul  like  mine,  diseased  in  every  part, 


204  BITTER-SWEET. 

There  is  but  one  condition  in  which  grace 
May  give  it  service.    For  my  malady 
The  Great  Physician  draws  the  blood  away 
That  only  flows  to  feed  its  baleful  fires; 
For  only  thus  the  balsam  and  the  balm 
May  touch  the  springs  of  healing. 

So  I  pray 

To  be  delivered  from  myself, — to  be 
Delivered  from  necessity  of  ill, — 
To  be  secured  from  bringing  harm  to  you. 
Oh,  what  a  boon  is  death  to  the  sick  soul! 
I  greet  it  with  a  joy  that  passes  speech. 
Were  the  whole  world  to  come  before  me  now, — 
Wealth  with  its  treasures;  Pleasure  with  its  cup; 
Power  robed  in  purple;  Beauty  in  its  pride, 
And  with  Love's  sweetest  blossoms  garlanded ; 
Fame  with  its  bays,  and  Glory  with  its  crown, — 
To  tempt  me  lifeward,  I  would  turn  away, 
And  stretch  my  hands  with  utter  eagerness 


BITTER-SWEET.  205 

Toward  the  pale  angel  waiting  for  me  now, 
And  give  my  hand  to  him,  to  be  led  out, 
Serenely  singing,  to  the  land  of  shade, 

MAKY. 

Edward,  I  yield  you.     I  would  not  retain 
One  who  has  strayed  so  long  from  God  and  heaven, 
When  his  weak  feet  have  found  the  only  path 
Open  for  such  as  he. 

EDWARD. 

My  strength  recedes; 

But  ere  it  fail,  tell  me  how  fares  your  life. 
You  have  seen  sorrow  ;  but  it  comforts  me 
To  hear  the  language  of  a  chastened  soul 
From  one  perverted  by  my  guilty  hand. 
You  speak  the  dialect  of  the  redeemed — 
The  Heaven-accepted.    Tell  me  it  is  so, 
And  you  are  happy. 


206  BITTER-SWEET. 

MAKY. 

With  sweet  hope  and  trust 
I  may  reply,  'tis  as  you  think  and  wish. 
I  have  seen  sorrow,  surely,  and  the  more 
That  I  have  seen  what  was  far  worse ;  but  God 
Sent  his  own  servant  to  me  to  restore 
My  sadly  straying  feet  to  the  sure  path ; 
And  in  my  soul  I  have  the  pledge  of  grace 
Which  shall  suffice  to  keep  them  there. 

EDWARD. 

Ah,  joy ! 

You  found  a  friend ;  and  my  o'erflowing  heart, 
Welling  with  gratitude,  pours  out  to  him 
For  his  kind  ministry  its  fitting  meed. 
Oh,  breathe  his  name  to  me,  that  my  poor  lips 
May  bind  it  to  a  benison,  and  that, 
While  dying,  I  may  whisper  it  with  those — 
Jesus  and  Mary — which  I  love  the  best. 
Name  him,  I  pray  you. 


BITTER-SWEET.  207 

MARY. 

You  would  ask  of  me 

To  bear  your  thanks  to  him,  and  to  rehearse 
Your  dying  words? 

GRACE. 

He  asks  your  good  friend's  name; 
You  do  not  understand  him. 

MARY. 

It  is  hard 

To  give  denial  to  a  dying  wish ; 
But,  Edward,  I've  no  right  to  speak  his  name. 
He  was  a  Christian  man,  and  you  may  give 
Of  the  full  largess  of  your  gratitude 
All,  without  robbing  God,  you  have  to  give, 
And  fail,  e'en  then,  of  worthy  recompense. 

EDWARD. 

Your  will  is  mine. 


208  BITTER-SWEET. 

GRACE. 

Nay,  Mary,  tell  it  him  ! 

Where  is  he  going  he  should  bruit  the  name  ? 
Remember  where  he  lies,  and  that  no  ears 
Save  those  of  angels 

MARY. 

There  are  others  here 
Who  may  not  hear  it. 

RUTH. 

\ 

We  will  all  retire. 

It  is  not  proper  we  should  linger  here, 
Barring  the  sacred  confidence  of  hearts 
Parting  so  sadly. 

DAVID. 

Mary,  you  must  yield, 
Nor  keep  the  secret  longer  from  your  friends, 

MARY. 
David,  you  know  not  what  you  say. 


BITTEK-SWEET.  209 

DAVID. 

I  know  ; 
So  give  the  dying  man  no  more  delay. 

MART. 

I  will  declare  it  under  your  command. 

This  stranger  friend — stranger  for  many  months — 

This  man,  selectest  instrument  of  Heaven, 

Who  gave  me  succor  in  my  hour  of  need, 

Snatched  me  from  ruin,  rescued  me  from  want, 

Counselled  and  cheered  me,  prayed  with  me,   and   then 

Led  me  with  careful  hand  into  the  light, 

Was  he  now  bending  over  you  in  tears — 

David,  my  brother! 

EDWARD. 

Blessed  be  his  name ! 
Brother  by  every  law,  above — below! 


210  BITTER-SWEET. 

GRACE. 

[Pale  and  trembling 

David  ?    My  husband  ?    Did  I  hear  aright  ? 
You  are  not  jesting !     Sure  you  would  not  jest 
At  such  a  juncture  !     Speak,  my  husband,  speak ! 
Is  this  a  plot  to  cheat  a  dying  man, 
Or  cheat  a  wife  who,  if  it  be  no  plot, 
Is  worthy  death  ?     What  can  you  mean  by  this  ? 

MARY. 
Not  more  nor  less  than  my  true  words  convey 

GRACE. 

Nay,  David,  tell  me! 

DAVID. 
Mary's  words  are  truth. 

GRACE. 

O  mean  and  jealous  heart,  what  hast  thou  done  I 
What  wrong  to  honor,  spite  to  Christian  love, 


BITTER-SWEET.  211 

And  shame  to  self  beyond  self-pardoning ! 

How  can  I  evar  lift  my  faithless  eyes 

To  those  true  eyes  that  I  have  counted  false ; 

Or  meet  those  lips  that  I  have  charged  with  ties ; 

Or  win  the  dear  embraces  I  have  spurned  ? 

0  most  unhappy,  most  unworthy  wife ! 

No  one  but  he  who  still  has  clung  to  thee, — 
Proud,  and  imperious,  and  impenitent, — 
No  one  but  he  who  has  in  silence  borne 
Thy  peevish  criminations  and  complaints 
Can  now  forgive  thee,  when  in  deepest  shame 
Thou  bowest  with  confession  of  thy  faults. 
Dear  husband  !     David !     Look  upon  your  wife  ! 
Behold  one  kneeling  never  knelt  to  you  ! 

1  have  abused  you  and  your  faithful  love, 
And,  in  my  great  humiliation,  pray 

You  will  not  trample  me  beneath  your  feet. 
Pity  my  weakness,  and  remember,  too, 
That  Love  was  jealous  of  thee,  and  not  Hate — 
That  it  was  Love's  own  pride  tormented  me. 


212  BITTER-SWEET. 

My  husband,  take  me  once  more  to  your  arms, 

And  kiss  me  in  forgiveness ;   say  that  you 

Will  be  my  counsellor,  my  friend,  my  love  ; 

And  I  will  give  myself  to  you  again, 

To  be  ah1  yours — my  reason,  confidence, 

My  faith  and  trust  ah1  yours,  my  heart's  best  love, 

My  service  and  my  prayers,  all  yours — ah1  yours! 

DAVID. 

Rise,  dearest,  rise !     It  gives  me  only  pain 

That  such  as  you  should  kneel  to  such  as  I. 

Your  words  inform  me  that  you  know  how  weak 

I  am  whom  you  have  only  fancied  weak. 

Forgive  you  ?  I  forgive  you  everything ; 

And  take  the  pardon  which  your  prayer  insures. 

Let  this  embrace,  this  kiss,  be  evidence 

Our  jarring  hearts  catch  common  rhythm  again, 

And  we  are  lovers. 


BITTER-SWEET.  213 

RUTH. 

Hush!  You  trouble  him. 
He  understands  this  scene  no  more  than  we. 
Mary,  he  speaks  to  you. 

EDWARD. 

Dear  wife,  farewell  ! 

The  room  grows  dim,  and  silently  and  soft 
The  veil  is  dropping  'twixt  my  eyes  and  yours, 
Which  soon  will  hide  me  from  you — you  from  me. 
Only  one  hand  is  warm ;  it  rests  in  yours, 
Whose  full,  sweet  pulses  throb  along  my  arm, 
So  that  I  live  upon  them.     Cling  to  me ! 
And  thus  your  life,  after  my  life  is  past, 
Shall  lay  me  gently  in  the  arms  of  Death. 
Thus  shall  you  link  your  being  with  a  soul 
Gazing  unveiled  upon  the  Great  White  Throne. 

Dear  hearts  of  love  surrounding  me,  farewell ! 

I  cannot  see  you  now  ;   or,  if  I  do, 

10 


214  BITTEE-SWEET. 

You  are  transfigured.     There  are  floating  forms 

That  whisper  over  me  like  summer  leaves  ; 

And  now  there  comes,  and  spreads  through  all  my  soul, 

Delicious  influx  of  another  life, 

From  out  whose  essence  spring,  like  living  flowers, 

Angelic  senses  with  quick  ultimates, 

That  catch  the  rustle  of  etherial  robes, 

And  the  thin  chime  of  melting  minstrelsy — 

Rising  and  falling — answered  far  away — 

As  Echo,  dreaming  in  the  twilight  woods, 

Repeats  the  warble  of  her  twilight  birds. 

And  flowers  that  mock  the  Iris  toss  their  cups 

In  the  impulsive  ether,  and  spill  out 

Sweet  tides  of  perfume,  fragrant  deluges, 

Flooding  my  spirit  like  an  angel's  breath. 

******* 
And  still  the  throng  increases ;   still  unfold 
With  broader  span  and  more  elusive  sweep 
The  radiant  vistas  of  a  world  divine. 
But  O  my  soul !   what  vision  rises  now ! 


BITTER-SWEET.  215 

Far,  far  away,  white  blazing  like  the  sun, 

In  deepest  distance  and  on  highest  height, 

Through  walls  diaphanous,  and  atmosphere 

Flecked  with  unnumbered  forms  of  missive  power, 

Out-going  fleetly  and  returning  slow, 

A  presence  shines  I  may  not  penetrate ; 

But  on  a  throne,  with  smile  ineffable, 

I  see  a  form  my  conscious  spirit  knows. 

Jesus,  my  Saviour!   Jesus,  Lamb  of  God! 

Jesus  who  taketh  from  me  all  my  sins, 

And  from  the  world!   Jesus,  I  come  to  thee! 

Come  thou  to  me  !     O  come,  Lord,  quickly  !     Come  I 

DAVID. 

Flown  on  the  wings  of  rapture!    Is  this  death? 
His  heart  is  still;   his  beaded  brow  is  cold; 
His  wasted  breast  struggles  for  breath  no  more ; 
And  his  pale  features,  hardened  with  the  stress 
Of  Life's  resistance,  momently  subside 
Into  a  smile,  calm  as  a  twilight  lake, 


216  BITTER-SWEET. 

Sprent  with  the  images  of  rising  stars. 

We  have  seen  Evil  in  his  countless  forms 

In  these  poor  lives ;   have  met  his  armed  hosts 

In  dread  encounter  and  discomfiture; 

And  languished  in  captivity  to  them, 

Until  we  lost  our  courage  and  our  faith ; 

And  here  we  see  their  Chieftain — Terror's  King! 

He  cuts  the  knot  that  binds  a  weary  soul 

To  faithless  passions,  sateless  appetites, 

And  powers  perverted,  and  it  flies  away 

Singing  toward  Heaven.     He  turns  and  looks  at  us, 

And  finds  us  weeping  with  our  gratitude — 

Full  of  sweet  sorrow, — sorrow  sweeter  far 

Than  the  supremest  ecstasy  of  joy. 

And  this  is  death !     Think  you  that  raptured  soul 
Now  walking  humbly  in  the  golden  streets, 
Bearing  the  precious  burden  of  a  love 
Too  great  for  utterance,  or  with  hushed  heart 
Drinking  the  music  of  the  ransomed  throng, 


BITTER-SWEET.  217 

Counts  death  an  evil  ? — evil,  sickness,  pain, 

Calamity,  or  aught  that  God  prescribed 

To  cure  it  of  its  sin,  or  bring  it  where 

The  healing  hand  of  Christ  might  touch  it  ?     No ! 

He  is  a  man  to-night — a  man  in  Jhrist. 

This  was  his  childhood,  here ;   and  as  we  give 

A  smile  of  wonder  to  the  little  woes 

That  drew  the  tears  from  out  our  own  young  eyes- 

The  kind  corrections  and  severe  constraints 

Imposed  by  those  who  loved  us — so  he  sees 

A  father's  chastisement  in  all  the  ill 

That  filled  his  life  with  darkness;   so  he  sees 

In  every  evil  a  kind  instrument 

To  chasten,  elevate,  correct,  subdue, 

And  fit  him  for  that  heavenly  estate — 

Saintship  in  Christ — the  Manhood  Absolute! 


L'ENVOY. 


MIDNIGHT  and  silence!     In  the  West,  unveiled, 
The  broad,  full  moon  is  shining,  with  the  stars. 
On  mount  and  valley,  forest,  roof,  and  rock, 
On  billowy  hills  smooth-stretching  to  the  sky, 
On  rail  and  wall,  on  all  things  far  and  near, 
Cling  the  bright  crystals, — all  the  earth  a  floor 
Of  polished  silver,  pranked  with  bending  forms 
Uplifting  to  the  light  their  precious  weight 
Of  pearls  and  diamonds,  set  in  palest  gold. 
The  storm  is  dead ;  and  when  it  rolled  away 
It  took  no  star  from  heaven,  but  left  to  earth 
Such  legacy  of  beauty  as  The  Wind — 
The  light-robed  shepherdess  from  Cuban  groves — 
Driving  soft  showers  before  her,  and  warm  airs, 
And  her  wide-scattered  flocks  of  wet-winged  birds, 


BITTER-SWEET.  219 

Never  bestowed  upon  the  waiting  Spring. 

Pale,  silent,  smiling,  cold,  and  beautiful! 

Do  storms  die  thus?     And  is  it  this  to  die? 

Midnight  and  silence!    In  that  hallowed  room 
God's  full-orbed  peace  is  shining,  with  the  stars. 
On  head  and  hand,  on  brow,  and  lip,  and  eye, 
On  folded  arms,  on  broad  unmoving  breast, 
On  the  white-sanded  floor,  on  everything, 
Rests  the  pale  radiance,  while  bending  forms 
Stand  all  around,  loaded  with  precious  weight 
Of  jewels  such  as  holy  angels  wear. 
The  man  is  dead;   and  when  he  passed  away 
He  blotted  out  no  good,  but  left  behind 
Such  wealth  of  faith,  such  store  of  love  and  trust, 
As  breath  of  joy,  in-floating  from  the  isles 
Smiled  on  by  ceaseless  summer,  and  indued 
With  foliage  and  flowers  perennial, 
Never  conveyed  to  the  enchanted  soul. 
Do  men  die  thus?    And  is  it  this  to  die? 


220  BITTEE-SWEET. 

Midnight  and  silence  !     At  each  waiting  bed, 
Husband  and  wife,  embracing,  kneel  in  prayer; 
And  lips  unused  to  such  a  benison 
Breathe  blessings  upon  evil,  and  give  thanks 
For  knowledge  of  its  sacred  ministry. 
An  infant  nestles  on  a  mother's  breast, 
Whose  head  is  pillowed  where  it  has  not  lain 
For  months  of  wasted  life  —  the  tale  all  told, 
And  confidence  and  love  for-aye  secure. 

The  widow  and  the  virgin  :   where  are  they  ? 

The  morn  shall  find  them  watching  with  the  dead, 

Like  the  two  angels  at  the  tomb  of  Christ,  — 

One  at  the  head,  the  other  at  the  foot,  — 

Guarding  a  sepulchre  whose  occupant 

Has  risen,  and  rolled  the  heavy  stone  awayl   * 

THE   END. 


UNIVEKSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBEAEY, 
BERKELEY 


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21  1922 


APR  11 


:C'D  LD 

S'64-2 


20m-ll,'20 


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